A Fish Called Fluffy
by Saint Bacchus
Summary: Movieverse, postSM2. Harry Osborn has struggled with hallucinations, addiction, and self loathing for the past two years. Aunt May's kindness and Gwen Stacy's love help him find the good in himself, but his father won't let him off the hook so easily....
1. Questions

Harry Osborn stood in the middle of a secret arsenal, slowly scanning the Green Goblin's pumpkin bombs, glider, and green suit. He felt oddly detached from the experience, and from the others that had happened the same night. For a moment, everything made perfect sense. Peter's constant unexplained absences, his father's increasingly erratic behavior–it was all so obvious, now that he knew why. And, for the moment, it was all right. He sat down on the pedestal where the mask and glider rested, staring blankly at the green tubes that lined the walls.

His mind returned to the night he lost Mary Jane. He had found them together–Peter and MJ, his best friend and his girlfriend–holding hands, talking softly. He hadn't been sure what to do. Even though Pete had betrayed him, he was still his best friend. Harry didn't want to abandon their friendship outright–it had meant so much to him, and, in all honesty, Harry didn't have enough friends to just ditch a couple of them. He wanted to have people around him that he could love and who would love him in return. Craved it, actually. It was loathsome and unforgivable, but there it was. So he had given in to weakness as usual and left, instead of taking control as an Osborn should.

He had then gone to his father's townhouse, like a child who has to cut his own switch. He knew what his father would say, and although he didn't exactly want to hear it, he felt as though he deserved to. To his enormous surprise, his father had not only not berated his stupidity, but had sympathized and comforted him. It was the first time they had been so close since Harry was a kid, and it was one of Harry's best memories of his father.

Sitting in the Green Goblin's secret cache, Harry wondered, _Was it just because he was crazy?_ And then, _How could he have attacked those executives at the World Unity Festival knowing I could be killed, too?_ It was a bit selfish–after all, several people had died–but he couldn't help being hurt. That was when the weight of it hit him, all at once. He felt nauseous and oddly contaminated, as though the place had the power to infect him with the madness that had consumed his father.

He got up quickly and ran back out to his father's study, where he grabbed the bottle of bourbon and stumbled to the desk, his numb limbs reluctant but obedient. He grabbed the phone and called Peter. Four rings; nobody home. "Pete? It's Harry. I…uh…found something. We need to talk. Give me a call when you get back."

Pete had said he was going to stop Doc Ock from recreating his crazy fusion machine. Who knew when he might be back, if at all. Harry let his head drop into his hands. "Why didn't you tell me?" he said softly. "I could have helped… I could've…."

"I think you know the answer to that," Norman Osborn replied.

Harry looked up to see his father leaning over the desk.

"How could I trust you?" Norman sneered. "You've spent two years chasing Spider-Man and you didn't even have the spine to kill him when you had him."

"Leave me alone," Harry spat, turning away and moving over to the chez lounge. He took a long swig of bourbon straight from the bottle. As the right-hand side of the room had fallen silent, Harry turned his head to see if it was clear.

"Oh, well done," came a new voice, from Harry's front. Immediately, Harry knew it was the same creature that had laughed so maniacally earlier. It sounded like Norman, but unlike him. Harry whipped his head back around to see the Green Goblin in full attire. The thing squatted in front of Harry and cocked its head at the bottle. "You really are a chip off the old block, eh? All the vices, none of the virtues. It didn't help him, what makes you think it'll help you?"

Harry frowned at the bottle. "It'll shut you up," he said.

"Don't bet on it, son," said the Goblin, then laughed that shrill cackle.

Harry looked back at the desk, considering, but the Goblin had beaten him to the punch and was sitting jauntily on top of Harry's things like some grotesque paperweight.

"Thinking about calling your friends?" the Goblin asked cheerfully. "And who shall we call first, the girlfriend who never liked you? The brother who's betrayed you twice? How about one of those OsCorp kiss-asses, since nobody else seems to like you?"

"Get out of my way," Harry snapped, moving to sit at the desk. The Goblin jumped aside obligingly as Harry sat and dialed the operator, but he hovered obnoxiously close. "New York, New York. May Parker," Harry said.

At that, the Goblin doubled over and began to laugh louder and more hideously than before.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Harry hissed at it. Between the booze and the Goblin, his head was beginning to throb like the goddamn telltale heart.

"Hello? Who is this?" a confused voice asked from the other end of the line.

"Aunt May –" Harry began.

"Harry, is that you? What's the matter?" May's voice was tense.

The Goblin leaned close to Harry's ear. "What are you gonna tell her, that you never had a mommy and you want your friend Petey's?"

Harry just wanted someone to talk to, and May was as close to a friend as he had. But it was the Goblin's words that resonated in his mind. He couldn't tell Aunt May something stupid like that. "Uh…have you seen Pete?" he asked instead.

"Why, no. Should I have?"

_Not really, since he doesn't live with you and he spent the whole night tracking Doc Ock anyway._ There was a long, awkward pause while Harry considered what to say to that.

"Harry…" May began hesitantly.

"I'm really sorry I bothered you, Aunt May. It won't happen again, I promise. I'm sorry. Bye." The Goblin was laughing again. Harry hung up quickly and took another long draft of bourbon.

As if reading his thoughts, the Goblin piped up, "Face facts, kid. Short of cutting your own head off, you aren't getting rid of me."

"Good idea," Harry agreed, and downed the rest of the bottle. He suspected it wouldn't be enough, though. His tolerance had been annoyingly high lately. He made his way over to table that held decanters full of what Harry thought of as the "guest liquor"–the aged stuff that would impress visitors, but that he didn't like quite as much as the good old Maker's Mark. There was rum, brandy, and Irish whiskey in the decanters, or the bottle of Corazon Reposado tequila Harry had left there one night. Corazon Reposado–what a coincidence, that was exactly what he was looking for. He took the bottle back to the chez lounge.

After a while, the Goblin reappeared and stood at his feet. It was a detestable thing. It had nearly killed Aunt May and Mary Jane, not to mention the countless others unlucky enough to get in its way. His father walked into his field of vision from the other side and stood next to the Goblin.

Since they weren't talking, Harry took the opportunity to examine them closely. It looked for all the world as though they were really standing there, although Harry was sure that couldn't possibly be true. That they appeared as separate entities comforted him somewhat. His father and the Green Goblin couldn't be the same person, just as his beloved friend Pete couldn't be his hated enemy Spider-Man. If it were true, what did it say about Harry that the two people he loved and trusted most never trusted him?

Some time later, Harry's cell phone went off. He had dozed off, and even at full volume, the sound barely made it through the fog in his head. He managed to get it out of his pocket and hit a button by instinct, hoping it was the one to connect instead of the one to hang up.

"Harry, it's Peter. What do you want?"

"Pete! So glad to hear you. You don't know…so glad…."

"Have you been drinking?" Peter asked, sounding tired and annoyed.

"Yeah, but that's not the thing. This is the thing: you have to come over."

"Why?"

Harry paused. That was a good question. He looked around the room for clues, but everything was spinning too fast to see clearly. "Can't remember," he admitted.

On the other end of the line, Peter sighed. "Jeez, Harry, it's almost four in the morning. Sleep it off, will you?"

"Wait–please–come over, we'll remember…y'know, figure it out. You and me, Pete."

"Get some sleep. I'll talk to you later, when you're sober. It can wait till then."

"No, no, no, no, no. Please come. Don't want to be alone. I'll stop drinking."

"I can't do this right now. See you tomorrow."

The line went dead, although Harry didn't realize it for some time afterward. Eventually, he gave up and started looking for the tequila. It hadn't gone far.

**Chapter 1: Questions**

Harry spent the next day in a hospital bed, drifting between a fitful sleep and a pounding headache that came very close to distracting him from the terrible nausea. Whenever he was awake, he saw Aunt May. Sometimes she noticed he could see her and ran a cool hand across his fevered brow. Towards evening, his headache receded and he fell asleep, only to be hounded by the Green Goblin the entire night.

In one especially vivid nightmare, he dreamed the Goblin was dangling him off the Roosevelt Island bridge. But when the Goblin pulled off his mask, it was Harry's own face underneath–twisted by cruelty and hate, but his own face. Howling like a demon, the Goblin dropped Harry off the bridge.

Harry woke when his body hit the water. He looked over and saw that the sun was reflecting off the spotlessly white walls. It made his head hurt, so he looked toward the spot where Aunt May had been sitting before. She was gone. _Did you expect her to stay forever, stupid?__She's probably got things to do._

Just then, she came in carrying a vase full of yellow flowers. "Oh–you're awake!" she said, setting the flowers on the windowsill.

She settled herself into an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair next to the bed, looking slightly pained. "I meant to be here when you woke up. I remember when I was in the hospital two years ago, it was such a comfort to have Peter there…" she trailed off ruefully. "But then I saw those carnations, and I thought they'd brighten things up a bit –"

Not wanting to hear an apology, Harry interrupted, "They're great, Aunt May. Thanks."

She nodded. After a short pause, she asked, "Are you feeling all right, dear?"

"Better than last night," he answered noncommittally. Then, sensing from her earnest expression that she wanted more of an answer, he continued, "Yeah, I think I'm okay."

"Good." The older woman's expression turned steely. "Because you had me worried half to death! Do you have any idea what your blood alcohol content was?" She paused briefly, as if waiting for Harry's answer, but interrupted as soon as he opened his mouth. "Point three-two. _Three two!_ You're lucky you aren't _dead_. What do you have to say for yourself?" Again, she stopped talking just long enough for Harry to fumble for an answer. "Don't even start with me, young man. There aren't enough excuses in all five boroughs. Of all the foolish–! Do you know how worried–? I'm speechless. Speechless!"

May didn't seem very speechless to Harry, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Three transfers!"

Harry blinked.

"You had me so worried after that phone call that I made three transfers and walked six blocks _at five in the morning!_ Oh, I'm too old for this nonsense."

"You took the bus?"

"The train, dear. I would have been there sooner, but they don't run till five. And that's hardly the point!"

"Why didn't you take the Olds?"

Taken aback, Aunt May lowered her voice. "I don't have it anymore. Didn't Peter tell you?"

"Pete doesn't tell me anything anymore."

May nodded sympathetically. "If it makes you feel any better, I probably don't see any more of him than you do. Did you get ahold of him last night?"

Harry had to think for a minute about that. As the memory of Peter's phone call pieced itself together, his frown deepened into a scowl. _Oh yeah, we talked all right. Just long enough for him to abandon me in my time of need._

Immediately, the hateful voice of the Goblin whispered in his ear, "Sure, blame Peter, you sniveling worm."

Alarmed, Harry barked, "Shut up!" at the voice, but there was no one there. Aunt May sat back in her chair, watching him cautiously.

Remembering where he was, Harry immediately apologized. "I haven't been feeling well lately, in case you haven't noticed," he said, trying to cover his fear with a smile. He had been hoping the first round of hallucinations would be the last.

"Maybe you should speak to someone," May suggested.

"I'm speaking to you."

"That's not what I meant."

"I'm not crazy!"

"No, of course not." May took his hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm just concerned, that's all."

"Don't trust her," a new voice interjected. Harry recognized it immediately as his father's. "She isn't family, Harry. She wants something from you. Don't trust her!"

Harry heard the voice very clearly in his left ear, just as though someone were sitting there speaking to him, but he didn't look over. Instead, he stared steadily into May's eyes. "Thanks. But I'm going to be fine. Really."

They chatted for a bit longer, then May left with another stern admonishment, leaving Harry to watch daytime television and wait for an overworked doctor to show up and discharge him. He was just pulling on the fresh shirt May had brought him when Peter showed up.

"Hey," said Peter, lurking in the doorway like some kind of collegiate vampire.

"I wondered if you'd bother," Harry said coolly, buttoning his shirt.

"Look, Harry –"

"Save it," Harry snapped. "You're off the hook."

"What do you mean?"

"You know all those obligations you have to your friends? Things like talking to them and hanging out with them? Well, you're not obligated, because we're not friends."

Harry strapped on his watch and left the room, a stunned Peter Parker stepping aside to let him go. Peter regained his senses and caught up with Harry at the elevator.

"What, just like that?" he demanded.

"No, Pete, not 'just like that.' Ever since you-know-who, you haven't been much of a friend to anyone. It's not just me. It's MJ and Aunt May, too. Aunt May told me you haven't even seen her new place. You didn't tell me she lost the house. I would've helped–"

"Parkers don't take charity," Peter said hotly.

"What charity? I thought we were friends," Harry shot back. He exited the elevator at the ground floor, Peter following. After a few steps, he slowed, then stopped. He slumped a bit, his hard expression softening. "I wanted to hear your side of it," he explained. "That's why I called."

"Why didn't you just say so?" Peter said, exasperated.

"I told you, I forgot. That happens when you drink a bottle of tequila in five hours. That's the _point _of tequila. If you had just come over like I asked, you would have seen." Harry left through the lobby doors and walked to where his father's chauffeured Rolls Royce was waiting for him.

"Harry, wait," Peter tried again.

"Since when do you give a damn?" Harry said icily, slamming the car door. He thought he heard Peter say something, but he wasn't in the mood to hear it. Just talking to Peter reminded Harry too much of his dad. Drunk, Harry had been confused about what to think about Peter's involvement in Norman's death. Sober, he could barely consider it without having ten different irresistible impulses–smash things, laugh, cry, crush his hand in the car door, crush Peter's hand in the car door…. It was so much easier just to be angry about the small things.

He tried to clear his mind, but one line from their conversation kept repeating in his head like a mantra. _If you had just come over…if you had just come over, you would have seen…_. Suddenly, a bolt of panic arced up his spine. There were paramedics in the study, not to mention Bernard the houseman. If one of them happened to snoop around the crawlspace --! Hands sweating, he pulled out his cell phone and called Aunt May.

* * *

Peter Parker stood in front of the hospital, barely feeling the damp April wind biting through his light jacket.

"You'll be sorry when I'm dead!" he shouted at the car, but the wisecrack didn't cheer him up. He was angry at Harry, but he was angrier at himself, because everything Harry said was true. After all, Mary Jane had told him exactly the same thing. _Not that I haven't been working up a nice big, ulcer over it,_ he thought bitterly. You _try keeping eight million people safe, and see how much time you have left for shooting the breeze._

After being reassured numerous times by both Bernard and Aunt May that no one had entered the crawlspace/weapons cache (though Bernard had taken it upon himself to hire a workman to replace the mirror), Harry was reasonably sure that nobody knew his father's secret but himself and Peter. He wandered into the master bedroom, left untouched since his father's death. It all seemed so unreal–Norman was Harry's hero, great and untouchable. How could he have done the things the Goblin did?

Harry thought hard. He imagined his father. Then he imagined his father wrapping his hands around Mendell Stromm's neck and tossing him into the wall. Nope, that didn't play. Harry didn't know Dr. Stromm very well, and the situation was too outlandish anyway. Thinking it might be easier to imagine his father in the study–as that was where he had spent most of his time at home–Harry left the master bedroom.

He tried again. This time, he stared at the mirror. He looked through it into the secret crawlspace, and imagined Norman there, stripping out of his suit and tie, and putting on the Goblin armor and mask. Okay, that he could believe. From there, he imagined the Green Goblin stepping up onto the glider and jetting off towards Times Square.

He remembered the World Unity Festival from his own perspective, watching the thing streaking across the sky, leaving a jet-trail of exhaust. It was tossing pumpkin-shaped bombs at him–wait, no. Not at him. At Max Fargas and Mr. Balkan and a few other executives on OsCorp's board of directors. If Norman had been aware of Harry at all, he hadn't been targeting him, although he hadn't been avoiding him, either. He had thrown the bombs and left it to Harry to get out of the way. That was depressing, but believable.

But Mr. Fargas was an old family friend, why would Norman want to kill him? That didn't add up. And really, couldn't it be anyone behind the mask? If the Goblin's equipment came from OsCorp, there might be multiple suits and gliders. The mask Harry recognized as a longstanding part of Norman's collection, but it was certainly possible to make more.

He was wary of this line of inquiry. Following his father's footsteps had taken him to a very dark place, and he was afraid to go there again. Yet, if his father wasn't responsible for his actions, Harry wanted to know; and if he was, Harry wanted to understand. With that in mind, he flipped through his father's Rolodex until he found the name he wanted: J. Jonah Jameson.

For a couple of weeks after Doc Ock's demise, New York's petty criminals attempted to have a field day, much to Spider-Man's annoyance. Peter knew it was his own fault for trying to shirk his responsibilities, but that didn't make it less grueling. Without Spider-Man around, scum and lowlifes citywide had renewed their operations with vigor. But even after his return, Spider-Man had been so busy chasing down Ock that he'd had no time to waste on small potatoes. Well, he was paying for it now. The criminals he'd been busting steadily since gaining his powers were back out in force. Unfortunately for them, so was Spider-Man. Tonight, he decided to visit the docks. There was always something going on at the docks.

Maybe Harry and MJ were right. Maybe he just wasn't meant to have normal relationships with people. A normal person wouldn't have spent a month chasing down a crazy scientist and his robot arms. A normal person wouldn't have been in the position of having to kill his best friend's father, accidentally or otherwise. Spider-Man crawled silently to the top of a warehouse and surveyed the area. Even though it was past midnight, a group of burly men was unloading cargo from one of the docked ships. Spider-Man recognized a couple of them as crooks he'd busted before.

Harry had said he'd found something, and that if Peter had come over he would've seen. But what? If Harry knew that his father was the Green Goblin, there was a chance he would believe the truth about Norman's death, and Harry and Peter could still be friends. Maybe Norman Osborn had stashed something incriminating in his townhouse. But maybe not. Harry's statements were ambiguous. Norman's dying wish was that Peter not tell Harry his secret, and Peter had every intention of respecting it. He would just have to wait until Harry was ready to talk.

"I don't suppose you boys have papers for that!" he shouted, swinging down to the ground. He was all primed for a good fight–he had counted eight men hauling crates and one overseeing them, which made it halfway sporting–but, to his surprise, none of them was coming at him. They simply set the crates they were hauling on the ground and waited. Spider-Man struck a pose, scratching his head.

He recognized the overseer as Snaps Soriano, part of a gang that he had previously put away for fencing stolen jewelry. "Yo, stinky!" he called.

"That's Mr. Soriano to you," said the man coolly. "As a matter of fact, we _do_ have papers for this stuff. My coworker Ricky will elucidate." He snapped his fingers. One of the men, who had been driving a forklift, jumped down and trudged towards the ship.

"If you've got legal orders to transport this cargo, why do it in the dead of night?" Spider-Man hopped to the top of one of the larger crates and dangled his feet off the side. "I mean, don't you know how _suspicious_ this looks?"

"Boss likes to keep things hush-hush. More that that, I could not tell you."

"Whatcha got in here, anyway?" Spider-Man leaned forward and swung his legs up, so that he was balancing on his hands on the edge of the box. He thought he heard one of the thugs mutter, "Showoff."

"Medical supplies. For hospitals and orphanages." Snaps rolled the last word around his mouth like a cigar.

"Mind if I take a look?" Without waiting for an answer, Spider-Man flipped forward, landing on his feet. He turned around and punched straight through the wooden crate, then pulled off the side using the holes he had made. Sure enough, there was nothing inside but a man-sized glass cylinder, some rubber tubing, and a whole lot of packing peanuts.

While he was examining the contents of the crate, Ricky came back with the shipping order. Spider-Man looked it over. "Shipment for Multivex…never heard of 'em."

Snaps looked at him with supreme disdain. "So?"

Spider-Man shrugged. "Got me there. N. Carmine Soriano, huh? What's the N stand for?"

"None of your business," Snaps sneered. "We got a lot of unloading to do." He snapped his fingers again, and the other men resumed their work.

"I s'pose I can let you go this time," Spider-Man said lightly, tossing the order back to Snaps. He swung towards the heart of Manhattan, frustrated. _Bottomfeeding thugs like that doing honest work_, he thought, _what's the world coming to?  
_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I started writing this shortly after seeing _Spider-Man 2_, picking it up every so often whenever I felt like hanging out with Harry, Gwen, and the gang. But with _Spider-Man 3_ out and wrapping up MovieHarry's story for real, I figured it was about time to finish my own version. I did my best to keep all the angst, adventure, and New Yorkness that makes Spider-Man so awesome–hope you enjoy! 


	2. Networking

**Chapter 2: Networking**

With the connections he had inherited, it wasn't too difficult for Harry to find out what had been going on at OsCorp. Jonah Jameson grumbled a little at letting him look at the microfilm archive, but gave in after a little wheedling, on the condition that Harry have someone from the Bugle staff with him. Harry went through every paper from a month before Mendell Stromm's death to a month after Norman Osborn's, stopping to read not only the articles he was looking for, but anything else that struck him as remotely interesting. It took longer, but he thought the Bugle staffer hadn't noticed a pattern. Harry, on the other hand, was beginning to form a narrative.

Quest Aerospace had been the industry leader in the lucrative defense market OsCorp had been pursuing. OsCorp had entered the field from the commercial manufacturing side, but Quest had entered from the aviation side, and had some advantages there. Quest, he gathered, had taken some time to build a large stable of talented scientists, whereas Norman Osborn had depended largely on his own innovations to drive the company. While those innovations were many and exceptional, they were not enough to cover the rapid expansion Norman demanded. Harry doubted his father would back down from a project just because things were getting risky, but he also knew several of the executives on the Board of Directors, and he knew they were far more conservative. That put Norman in a precarious position.

Next, Harry spoke with the OsCorp employees he thought might know anything. His father's former secretary, Miss Simkins–she was now assisting another bigwig–knew of all the projects on which Norman had been working, and had the names of all the technicians on those projects. From them, Harry learned that there was only one glider with one suit (the suit, he discovered, served as body armor and helped control the different features of the glider–he supposed it had been wrecked when his father died, and Spider-Man had gotten rid of it), although other prototypes had been in development. That was good news, since it meant no one but Norman knew about the second suit and glider.

The technicians also told Harry that his father had argued with Mendell Stromm on several occasions about the safety of some sort of super-soldier drug. The techs were under the impression that the drug samples had been destroyed when it became clear the drug wouldn't be ready in time, and that the missing suit and glider had simply been warehoused somewhere.

In retrospect, Harry found it astonishing and a little disturbing that his father had never been investigated for Stromm's death. It all seemed very obvious to him. Norman had coerced Stromm into helping him test the drug on himself. The drug turned out to be unsafe, as Stromm had predicted, and Norman had killed him in a psychotic rage. The left side of Harry's brain found this to be the likeliest story, as it explained all the facts without stretching credulity too far in any one direction. The right side of his brain was appalled at the very idea, and thought it far more likely that Stromm had faked his own death, then framed and killed Norman. It was still working on a motive when Aunt May called and invited him to lunch.

Her new place looked a lot like her old place, but on a smaller scale. The living room was cozy and comfortable, the kitchen bright and cheerful. There were flowers everywhere–floral prints on the towels and wallpaper, and even a freshly-cut centerpiece on the table. Harry liked it. It felt more like a home and less like a museum than his townhouse. For lunch, May had prepared clam chowder, sandwiches, and tossed salad, with homemade blueberry pie for desert. She laid it all out, but asked him to wait as she nervously checked the clock.

At a quarter after, Harry asked what was going on.

May bit her lip. "Now, don't be angry, but I invited Peter, too."

"Why would I be mad? You can invite anyone you want over to your own home," Harry replied stiffly.

"I had hoped you two might have a chance to talk…" she looked down at her hands and twisted her wedding ring coquettishly. "To have you two fighting, it's such a burden to put on an old lady, dear, really…."

This hadn't occurred to Harry, who suddenly felt extremely guilty.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "If you want me to go –"

"Heavens, no. Land sakes, you do take things to heart, don't you?" May shook her head and looked at the clock again. "Well, we'd better get started if we don't want the soup to get cold."

The mood lightened as May updated Harry on her activities. She was giving piano lessons to the children in her apartment complex and enjoying getting to know her neighbors. She also planted flowers in the community garden, donated her time to the Salvation Army, and worked part-time for a local daycare to supplement the Social Security checks that were her only other source of income. And for all that, she had still found time to call Harry four times in the past week, just to check up. Every time, she had given him the impression that she had nothing more pressing to do than fuss over him.

Harry had two slices of pie and would have had a third if he hadn't already stuffed himself on the soup and sandwiches. He complimented her lavishly on it, so when she divvied up the leftovers between him and Peter, she gave Harry the extra slice. He picked a stray blueberry out of the tin and ate it, thinking.

Finally, he said, "Hey, Aunt May. When's your birthday?"

The corners of her mouth turned up. "In May, of course. Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking that I never really thanked you for saving my life. I want to get you something."

"Pish posh. I was happy to help, and I'll hear no more about it," she said briskly.

"It's not just that, though. I also wanted to thank you for checking up on me. I don't have any family, so it means a lot…" he trailed off, feeling self-conscious. Aunt May had sat down in front of him and seemed to be studying him.

"What sort of a thing were you thinking of?" she asked.

Greatly relieved, he answered in a rush of breath. "Anything you want. Jewelry, furs, a house, a car…whatever, anything. What do you want?"

"I want never again to hear that you've hurt yourself. I want to know that you'll be all right. If it isn't too much to ask, I'd like you to visit sometimes. There is no trifle you could buy that would mean more to me than that."

Harry waited for the punchline. After a moment, May sighed and gave him an exasperated look.

"In other words," she said, "you aren't getting off that easily."

He had to smile. "I was just thinking the same thing."

May threw up her hands in despair. "If you really must, then go ahead…but nothing too extravagant. I won't have you thinking of me as some sort of charity case."

Harry swore that he was thinking no such thing, and May sent him out the door with a pile of food and a peck on the forehead.

_Ah,_ he thought cheerfully, _but who's to say what's too extravagant?_

* * *

Peter took a deep breath and pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to relieve the tension. These headaches were going to drive him crazy if he didn't watch out. He was so frazzled from a week of feeling bad and studying hard for his midterms that he forgot all about lunch with Aunt May and was late–again!–even though he had no good excuse. Even better, the more frustrated and annoyed he was, the worse the headaches got.

Peter was just about to go in when Harry walked out the door carrying a stack of plastic containers. He cocked his head to one side and observed, "You look like death."

"Thanks," said Peter irritably. He was in no mood for this.

"What's up?" Harry said, something new coloring the even, emotionless tones he had been using with Peter lately. Whether it was concern or just train-wreck curiosity, Peter couldn't tell.

"I've been having these headaches lately."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Guilty conscience?"

_Not hardly_, Peter thought, but Harry was gone before he could think of a good comeback he could actually say.

The new place was eerily similar to the old place, as though someone had taken all the unnecessary items out and shrunk the rest down. He greeted Aunt May with a kiss, and she immediately busied herself whipping up the lunch leftovers into a fresh meal.

"Did you see Harry on your way in?" she asked. At his nodded affirmation, she continued, "And did you both act like civilized adults?"

"Yeah, it was fine. Don't worry about me, Aunt May. You have enough to think about." Peter frowned, hating to think he was causing his aunt any distress. That would be a fine way to repay the years of love and support she had given him.

"I know _you_ were raised right, it's Harry that worries me. He was just now threatening to buy me something terribly expensive for my birthday."

"What for?"

"Saving his life, as if I did anything heroic." She poured two cups of tea. "I'm sure his heart is in the right place, but he ought to learn that not everything has a price tag."

"What's he figure his life is worth?" Although he agreed with Aunt May, Peter was curious to know what Harry was offering.

"_Anything_," she answered, with some distaste.

Peter grinned. "Well, now you can get that stealth jet you've always wanted."

"I considered asking for a string of poloponies, but you know how serious he is…he would've taken it as an insult."

"What's a paloppony?"

Aunt May fixed him with a look of affectionate disapproval. "Whippersnapper." Her tone became thoughtful as she watched Peter eat. "I can't say I wasn't tempted, of course, but I really can't encourage that kind of thinking."

"I could use a car," Peter mumbled, mouth full of sandwich.

Aunt May's expression was all the answer he needed.

* * *

His father was waiting for Harry when he got home.

"Words are not actions, son."

Harry carried his leftovers to the fridge. "Jeez, dad," he sighed. "I was feeling okay just a minute ago."

"No, you weren't. You were feeling guilty. You won't be 'okay' until you do your duty and avenge my death."

Harry looked Norman over, trying to find any seam in the effect. He knew perfectly well it wasn't real, but the illusion was so perfect it was spooky. "I have things to do. You can stay if you don't bother me."

Norman smiled wryly. "Giving me permission to stay in my own home, how generous. It so happens that I have only one item on my 'To Do' list, and all the time in the world to get it done."

Harry ignored him and strode purposefully into Norman's study–no, _my_ study, he reminded himself. He sat down at his desk and turned on his computer. Norman stood on the opposite side of the desk, looking down on him.

Suddenly, Norman banged his fist on the desk. In half a second, he had turned from Harry's beloved father to the snarling monster that hid under the Goblin mask. He leaned close. Harry could feel his hot breath, could even smell just a whiff of the Aramis aftershave he always wore. _Very_ spooky. "You worthless ingrate! I gave you everything you could ever want, and this is how you repay me?"

"I can't do it. I'm not even sure I want to anymore." Harry instinctively moved back to get away from the Goblin.

Norman smoothed his features back to normal. He smiled indulgently. "Now, son, I know it's difficult for you, but sometimes you just have to do what has to be done. Do you understand?"

Harry clicked the mouse impatiently, but the computer wasn't ready to distract him yet. Norman moved closer, forcing Harry to look at him.

"When did I ever ask you for anything? Never. Now I need you to do this one thing for me, and everything will be right again. Don't you love me?"

Harry nodded miserably. "Yes, of course."

"Then kill Peter Parker and let me rest in peace." Norman's eyes held a silent plea. Harry had only once before seen his father look so vulnerable, the morning after Mendell Stromm's murder.

"No."

Instantly, all the warmth and vulnerability vanished from Norman's face. "You never were good for anything," he snapped, and then he himself vanished, right into thin air.

"Goodbye, dad," said Harry softly. He looked at the computer; still booting. Feeling very tired, he rested his head in his hands. When he raised it again, his palms were damp. He dried them on his handkerchief and cleared his mind. In a bad mood, any gift he thought of was likely to be terrible, and he wanted Aunt May's to be special.

Since her wedding was in only three weeks, he also needed to get a gift for Mary Jane, although he wasn't going quite as spectacular on that one. John Jameson was quite capable of taking care of MJ in the way she deserved–and besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that the wedding wouldn't actually come off. He flipped through the virtual catalogs of several high-class department stores, and found a dozen gold-preserved roses for MJ, but there was nothing that stood out as something Aunt May would even like, much less that conveyed what he wanted to tell her. At last, in despair, he decided to go to the Westerveldt Country Club.

Harry hated the club. It was a long drive out of the city to spend time with people around whom he felt even more awkward and out of place than he usually did. He had been there only once before, when he was sixteen and his father dragged him to some kind of cotillion or something. The major point of it was for Norman to make business contacts, although there was a secondary goal of introducing Harry to the kind of girls he was supposed to be dating. Harry had just flunked out of his fourth private school, and Norman was finally going to send him to a public school. But even if his son had to go to school with commoners, he didn't have to mingle with them.

Norman had made plenty of strategic alliances that night, but Harry hated every minute of it. Even though he had been born into this life, these circles, somehow he couldn't think of them as his people. The other kids seemed so impossibly perfect, he felt like a fraud just talking to them–Jay Gatsby hopelessly aping Tom Buchanan. In the past two years, he had learned how to make that persona work for him, but it was still a show.

As soon as he got to Westerveldt, he made a beeline for the bar. The sky was threatening rain, and only a few members were wandering around. Of them, only one had chosen the bar to light on. Harry sat down next to him.

The man was older, Harry guessed close to Aunt May's age, and aging gracefully. He had pale blue eyes that watered slightly. His hair was short and white, slicked back and parted neatly, with a matching white moustache. His three-piece suit was also white, accented with a bolero tie. Stick a pipe in his mouth, he'd be Mark Twain. Or Colonel Sanders.

Noticing Harry eyeballing him, the man chuckled. "Don't be shy, son. I've got nothing to hide." He had a smooth bass voice and a patrician Southern accent, and he spoke slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Oh, I didn't–I wasn't–" Harry began, flustered. Then he noticed the amusement on the man's face and calmed down. The guy seemed nice enough. "I'm Harry Osborn," he said, extending his hand.

The man shook it firmly. "Beau Hollingsworth. What're you drinking?"

"Bourbon."

"Man after my own heart," Beau grinned. He waggled a finger at the bartender, who poured them both a fresh round.

Shifting into Gatsby mode, Harry asked, "What brings you to New York, Beau? Business or pleasure?"

"Little of both, actually. I'm of a mind to set up shop and take me a wife."

Harry held up his glass. "I'll drink to that." They clinked glasses and drank deeply. "Next round's on me."

Beau nodded his appreciation. "And how about you, son? Couldn't have come on account of the weather." He looked out the window, where fat rain droplets were splashing lazily on the ground. It was still fairly bright out. "Devil's beating his wife with a frying pan," he commented, as if that made any sense at all.

"I was hoping to find someone who could give me some advice about gift giving."

"Reckon you come to the right place, then. What do you want to know?"

Harry explained, with minimal detail, who the gift was for and why. Beau sipped his drink thoughtfully. "If this lady's not like to take a handout that looks like a handout, reckon she won't take one with a bow tied on top. No, sir, that dog won't hunt."

"It's not a handout, it's a gift. Why can't I give a nice gift to a friend without everyone acting like I'm the Salvation Army or something?" Harry finished his drink and slammed the glass on the bar. He was immediately embarrassed at his own lack of control, but Beau seemed unruffled.

"Some folks don't like to be reminded of what they haven't got," Beau shrugged. "Maybe you ought to be thinking smaller. Now, women ain't so difficult. Every woman on God's green earth wants to be young and beautiful. It's up to you to find her something that'll make her feel young and beautiful–without seeming like you think she ain't young and beautiful enough."

Harry snorted. "Just that simple, huh?"

"Can't go wrong with perfume or jewels. You can mix it up some, but watch yourself." Beau took off one of his gold cufflinks and rolled up his shirtsleeve to reveal a triangular red mark. "This here is a battle scar," he explained. "Lady friend took the iron to me."

"What did you get her?" Harry asked, eyeing the scar.

"Boob job."

Harry looked up to see if he was joking, but he seemed perfectly serious.

"Yep," Beau continued wistfully, "She was some lady, but she was flatter'n a flitter." He sipped his drink. After a moment, he continued, "The only thing women like more than beauty is history. Things with sentimental value, understand? For instance, I gave my first wife a ring that was handed down in my mother's family back to the Civil War. And sure as I'm sitting here, she was happier about that little chip than any of my other wives were about any Cartier rock."

"Other wives?"

"Son," said Beau, "there are very few things in this life closer to divinity than standing in front of the preacher man and forging an eternal bond with the woman you love."

"But you didn't bond with them eternally. You didn't even spend your whole life with them."

"It's the living with them part that'll getcha," Beau said ruefully.

Noticing someone coming in at the side door, Beau waved at the newcomer and finished his drink. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you to it, son. That'll be business."

"Nice meeting you," said Harry, offering his hand again.

Again, Beau shook it, adding, "Pleasure's mine." He gave Harry his business card and went to meet his associate. Harry tucked the card into his wallet. Maybe there was something to this club thing, after all.


	3. Gwen

**Chapter 3: Gwen**

The next Friday, Spider-Man had just about had it with being Spider-Man. After two straight weeks of catching almost no criminals, he decided to give up for the moment and focus on his schoolwork. He was behind, as usual, but at least he had time to catch up, if the headaches didn't kill him first.

At lab that evening, he nearly burned himself and was saved only by the quick hand of his lab partner, uh…. He thanked her, but was ashamed to realize he had forgotten her name. She was a pretty blonde, and much nicer than she had to be, considering he was never in class and therefore never did any work. Actually, come to think of it, she was better than pretty. She was beautiful–no match for Mary Jane, of course, but the kind of girl any guy would be happy to have on his arm. She also knew her way around a chem lab, and they finished the night's work with time to spare.

"Headache?" she asked, as they were cleaning up.

"Yep. Is it that obvious?"

"Do you know you grind your teeth?"

"Huh?"

"I know a detective who grinds his teeth when he's thinking about a tough case. Gives him headaches." Her lips curled impishly. "You aren't thinking about a tough case, are you?"

"I'm not a detective."

"You should stop grinding your teeth anyway. And if you want some help catching up, I've got nowhere to be until the end of lab."

Peter took her up on it, and they got so much done that he decided to visit Aunt May on Saturday instead of spending the whole day buried in his textbook. Over a quickly prepared tea, he told her about his pretty lab partner.

"Well, why don't you ask her out?"

"I dunno. I've only seen her a couple times this semester." At her reproachful gaze, he quickly bent to study his sandwich. "This is great, Aunt May. What is this stuff, uh, Grey Poupon or something?"

"It's regular yellow mustard like I've been putting on your sandwiches for twenty years. Peter, when are you going to start taking things seriously?"

"It's not that I don't take things seriously, I just have a lot to do, is all."

"You'd better learn to make time for what's important," she chided. "Speaking of which, I'm afraid I can't stay long–I've been invited out to Harry's club for dinner and cocktails."

"Going out with Harry, huh?" Peter couldn't quite bring himself to say that sounded like a good time.

"Not this time. His name is Dr. Beau Hollingsworth." She smiled. "Goodness, it has been a long while since I met a man so charming."

"What about Uncle Ben?"

Aunt May reached out and stroked his cheek sympathetically. "Oh, Peter. You know I'll always love Ben, and I certainly haven't forgotten him. Beau and I are friends, that's all."

"What if he wants to be more than friends?" Peter demanded, aware that he was being childish and not caring.

"Then I will handle it," said Aunt May, with finality.

Peter knew from her tone there would be no arguing with her, so he didn't try. After a moment, he realized he was grinding his teeth again, cursed inwardly, and forced himself to stop.

"Oh!" Aunt May exclaimed. "I nearly forgot. Harry gave me his present."

She led him out behind the apartment building, where a row of cars were parked neatly. _He didn't seriously buy her a car, did he?_ Peter thought. _That's great, Har, why not a nice little chateau in the Hamptons while you're at it? Why not a string of poloponies?_ _Oh, man, now she's got _me _doing it_.

Aunt May stopped in front of one of the cars and beamed at it.

It took him a second to recognize it, but as soon as that spark went off, Peter gawked openly. "That's–it's the Olds!" He ran an affectionate hand over it. "Uncle Ben loved this car. He would be happy to know you still had it."

"Yes…it's perfect, isn't it?"

Peter had to agree.

Bernard brought another box into Harry's study and set it down in front of him. "Employee termination records," he announced.

"Great, thanks," said Harry. He had been sifting through stacks of documents, looking for anything that might exonerate his father, for weeks now. The termination files had seemed like a good place to start, but they had been well-hidden in OsCorp's labyrinthine records department, so it was only just now he had gotten his hands on them. He flipped the lid off the box and pulled out 1985.

There were apparently dozens of ways to get fired from OsCorp. However, by the time he got to 1987, one particular favorite was emerging. Every now and then, an employee would go on vacation and return to find that Human Resources had changed his hours and then fired him for not showing up. The first such case, Lucas Lichte, Harry laughed off as a snafu in H.R. Yet, by 1987, it seemed to be the leading cause of involuntary termination. Still, scheduling issues seemed fairly innocuous, and there were plenty of misfits to keep him busy.

Bernard entered again. "Mr. Parker," he announced.

Harry looked up in surprise.

"I hope you don't mind me dropping in on you like this," said Peter, sitting down on the chair that wasn't covered in papers. "I just wanted to say that Aunt May loves the car. It's perfect." When Harry didn't reply, Peter shifted awkwardly. "How'd you find it, anyway?"

"It wasn't that hard." Warming up a little at the compliment, Harry added, "I don't know how, but it ended up on the auction block at Christie's. Somebody told them Sam Raimi lost his virginity in it. I had to outbid three guys wearing Army of Darkness t-shirts."

Peter laughed heartily and Harry joined him. For a minute, it was just like old times. Harry hadn't realized how much he missed this, just hanging out and having fun like a normal person. He wished fervently that he could forget everything that had happened between him and Peter and go back to being friends. _You could_, said a quiet voice. _You know Peter had to kill dad, you could forgive him and make everything right. Revenge won't bring him back, it will only take Peter away, too…._

Immediately, his father bellowed, "How dare you even consider this!"

_Enough!_ Harry thought, and that fortunately shut them both up.

"Well," said Peter, giving him an odd look, "I didn't want to bother you, so I'll head out. Just one more thing…."

"Sure," said Harry distractedly.

"Who's this Beau Hollingsworth guy?"

"Oh." Harry pulled open a drawer and tossed a file to Peter. "Knock yourself out."

Peter rifled through the folder. "Unbelievable!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Driver's license photos, deeds to houses…are these tax records? This is his social security number–I could _be_ Beau Hollingsworth with this information!"

"You didn't think I'd let just anyone go out with Aunt May, did you?"

"They're going out?" Peter asked sharply.

Harry shrugged. "She says they're just friends. I say you can never be too careful, especially with a guy who's been married five times."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Thanks."

Harry leaned back, took off his glasses, and rubbed the red spots on the bridge of his nose. It was nearly seven, he wasn't really getting anywhere with the records, and he hadn't eaten in some time. Wanting to stretch his legs a bit, he took the elevator down and started walking.

He entered the first bar he came across, sat down, and ordered a burger and a bourbon. Sipping so that he could get a look at the place over the top of the glass, he observed that there were quite a lot of men. Most of them were dressed casually, but there seemed to be more than a fair share of cops in uniform.

By the end of the glass, he made it back around to his other side, where he was surprised to find an older man in a suit watching him from the next stool over.

"Just wandered in?" the man asked pleasantly.

"Yeah, I live at Tudor City. Can I ask you something?"

"Yes, this is a cop bar. One Police Plaza isn't far from here."

Harry blinked. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Of course."

"What number am I thinking of?"

The man laughed. "Good to know my investigator's instincts aren't stagnating behind a desk. I'd hate to think I was losing my edge."

"I wish I could do that. Just–bam–know what someone was thinking."

"It's useful in a number of settings, certainly. Although it can be a bit of a burden," the man sighed, taking a draft from his beer. "Frankly, I'd like to know a lot less about what my daughter's dates were thinking."

It was Harry's turn to laugh. "I'm Harry Osborn," he said.

The man's eyebrows quirked. "Captain George Stacy."

Harry downed another shot and the bartender set up a third. Harry was just starting to feel at ease when there was a flurry of movement. In that split-second of activity, his fresh drink transferred itself from the bar to his face. Dripping, bewildered, and glad he took his bourbon straight up and not on the rocks, he grabbed his handkerchief and dried off. Meanwhile, he was vaguely aware that an angry woman was accusing him of standing her up.

Eyes clear, he saw before him the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, including MJ Everything she was wearing–from the Alice in Wonderland headband to a pair of simple pumps–was snow white. Her blue eyes burned. Give her a spear, she would be a valkyrie. He stared at her, mesmerized.

"Harry? Harry."

Harry shook himself. "Yes, sir?" he turned back to George Stacy with some difficulty.

"My daughter has accused you of standing her up for a date tonight. What do you have to say for yourself?" He leaned over, eyes glittering.

An eternity of small moments passed. It could have been a hundred years, for all Harry knew. He could feel his lips drying and his palms itching. Then, the girl turned her head and cried, "Daddy, honestly!"

Time went back to normal. She sat down on Harry's other side so that he was between her and her father.

"Are you all right?" George asked Harry. "I'm sorry if I worried you, I just can't resist teasing my little angel here."

The angel turned her beautiful gaze on Harry. "I'm so, so, so sorry," she said. "I thought you were some other jerk. I mean! Some other guy! Sorry! Oh, no…." She dropped her head onto the bar and her hair fanned out like a silken waterfall. She even wallowed pretty.

"Chin up, Peaches, at least you weren't stood up by any decent fellow," George told the girl. "Harry, this is my daughter, Gwendolyn. Gwen dear, this is Harry Osborn."

"Nice to meet you," she said, but the blush that reddened her cheeks suggested otherwise. She frowned. "Osborn? Like…" she directed a pointed look at her father, who inclined his head slightly.

Gwen flapped her hands in dismay. "Oh, wow. I threw a drink on OsCorp. I really wanted to be a biochemist. I have to find a new major. And I'll probably die before I ever see _Cats_!" She pulled two theater tickets out of her handbag and tossed them on the bar. "I've lived in New York my whole life and never seen _Cats_. How sad is that?"

"I've lived here my whole life and never seen any musical," said Harry. He picked up the tickets. "I could take one of these off your hands," he paused dramatically. "If you'll take the other one."

Gwen stared at him blankly.

_I bet the Stacys clean up at poker_, he thought.

"If you really want to see your first musical all by yourself, I _guess_ I could hold on to this stupid thing," she said hesitantly. She considered the ticket. "It might make a good paper airplane."

Captain Stacy made a noise that sounded like a snort. Gwen and Harry both turned to look at him, but he was wiping his mouth and his expression was unreadable.

"I was thinking we could go together," Harry said.

"Oh! You must think I'm some kind of idiot," Gwen sighed. "I'm mortified."

"I'm Harry. Would you like to see _Cats_ with me tonight?"

Gwen laughed. "Even after I threw a drink on you and called you a jerk, you'd still take me out?"

"Technically, _you're_ taking _me_ out, but let's not quibble."

"You're on, Mr. Osborn. We can make it if we leave now."

Harry turned to Captain Stacy. "Sir?"

"Old-fashioned, eh?" Captain Stacy smiled. "All right, then. I'll take that as a good sign."

As Harry walked away with Gwen, he thought he heard the captain add, "Better you than me."

Three hours later, Harry thought he understood Captain Stacy's comment. Although there was an undeniable element of spectacle in watching a bunch of be-Spandexed actors arch their backs and hiss at each other, there was also an undeniable element of goofiness. Harry thought a police captain would not find it to be a good use of his time.

"So," he asked Gwen, when it was all over, "Was it all you hoped? Were there enough cats?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping for a good love story."

"A good cat love story?"

"No, silly, an epic romance. Like Rick and Ilsa, or Tony and Maria. I mean, is that really too much to ask?"

"From a musical about singing cats?"

Gwen laughed and punched him in the arm. "From the longest-running show on Broadway! How can you even make a musical without romance? It's like a bagel without cream cheese."

Without paying any particular attention, they had wandered away from the post-show crowd and toward Central Park. The moon was full and hanging low in the sky, illuminating other couples, joggers, and dog-walkers.

"It wasn't about romance. It was about redemption. Getting a chance to live life over, and not screw it all up this time. A love story wouldn't have fit."

"That's pretty heavy for a musical about singing cats," said Gwen, stopping to look at the moon. Suddenly, she turned toward Harry and smiled. For a half-second, he had the strangest feeling that the midday sun was shining just on him. "I'm glad you took me out tonight, Harry."

"Me too," he said instantly. He took her hand, and they started walking again.

"The guy I was supposed to meet tonight is a creep. I was just going out with him to annoy my dad."

Harry grinned. "You did manage to drive him to drinking. Why would you want to do that, anyway? It seemed like you and your dad got along really well."

"We do, but sometimes I like to do something he would hate. I feel like a traitor to my generation unless I shake him up every now and then," she said, grinning sheepishly.

"If I _ever_ did something my dad approved of, I'd be happy," Harry joked.

They walked on, chatting about this and that. He discovered that she was a huge fan of romance movies, the older the better. She thought movie heroines had turned into sissies since the days of Lauren Bacall and Katharine Hepburn. Her favorite movies were _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ and _Casablanca_, and she could recite most of the dialogue by heart. Her favorite book was _Out of Africa_, although she didn't like the movie as much.

When she asked him the same questions, he had trouble coming up with a favorite movie. His father never wasted time on frivolous entertainments. The movies Harry had seen with his friends were dumb teen fluff that did nothing but prove Norman's point.

"So how about your favorite book?"

That was an easier question to answer. It was _Catcher in the Rye_. "Holden liked _Out of Africa_, too," Harry told her.

They reached the Pond, and Gwen diverted them along one of the winding trails leading down to the water's edge. They sat down on a bench and watched the moon shine in the water.

"Now's where I would pull a huge picnic basket out of a bush," said Harry, pointing at a shrub. "And the violin players would be hiding behind that tree…but, you know, short notice."

"Am I to understand that you've taken other girls on this same romantic getaway?"

"Oh, no, just you."

"Good, because I'm very jealous."

A cool breeze stirred and Gwen shivered. Harry took off his suit jacket and draped it across her bare shoulders.

"You really are old-fashioned, huh?" she teased. "That wasn't just a show for my dad?"

"I thought you'd be warmer this way," he explained.

"I think I'd be warmest this way," she replied, sliding closer. Harry put an arm around her. She asked, "What would they play?"

"Hm?"

"The musicians. What would they be playing, if they were here?"

"Um…what do you want them to play?" Norman had not much approved of wasting time on music, either.

"They should definitely start with 'Moon River,' that's my all-time favorite. Then 'As Time Goes By'–oh, and definitely 'Somewhere My Love'! You don't know any of these songs, do you?"

"It doesn't matter as long as the violin guys do. But sing me a couple bars, let's set the mood."

"Okay, I'll do 'As Time Goes By'." She hummed a little bit.

Warming to his role as imaginary host, Harry continued, "That's great. Perfect. Okay, we've got crackers with caviar for the appetizer."

"Ooh."

"What?"

Gwen shifted uncomfortably. "I don't want to be high maintenance…."

"Go ahead. Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets."

"I don't like the way caviar crunches. Can we have liver pâté instead?"

"Pâté it is. The finest money can buy. Chilled champagne, of course."

"Wait, now. I'm not old enough. We didn't have to buy this champagne out of somebody's trunk, did we?"

"I had my houseman buy it, no laws were broken in the making of this picnic. Do you prefer Cristal or Dom?"

"I'll let you pick so you can show off your good taste."

"Let's go with the vintage Dom Perignon, then. Cristal is trendy, but I have a feeling you're more of a traditionalist."

"I'm impressed. You've really been paying attention. So what's for dinner?"

"Roast duck. It's even better cold."

"Delicious! Mmm, what a meal. The only thing that could make it better is a really great dessert to top it off."

"I'd better think hard, then." Harry stroked his chin with his free hand. "Okay…we'll start with a strawberry liqueur, then move on to chocolate mousse with fresh strawberry slices tucked in between the ripples. It's so light it barely touches your tongue."

She clapped her hands. "Fantastic. Definitely the best meal I've ever had outdoors." Then she turned to look at him, blue eyes round and serious. Harry had the same weird feeling he had had earlier when she was yelling at him and he didn't know whether he had actually done something wrong.

Gwen said, "Are you really going to eat that frou-frou parfait in public?"

Harry guffawed. "Yes, I will. I promise."

"Oh, that's wonderful. Sometimes I feel sorry for men, you know. Sure, they get all the money and power, but they don't get to wear bright colors or like sweet desserts or hate football."

"Hey, I think I might have the trifecta. I own colors, I like sweet desserts, and I really hate football."

"What's your favorite food?"

Harry looked at her skeptically. "Why do you want to know?"

"Idle curiosity. I promise not to hold it against you if it turns out to be cheese in a can."

Harry glanced around, but saw only another couple passing by, out of earshot. "All right. It's cheesecake. Especially chocolate cheesecake."

"I knew it! I knew you were a dessert guy. The description of the mousse was too perfect."

"Okay, okay, fair's fair–what's yours?"

"Blue Moon ice cream."

"I've never heard of it. What's it taste like?"

"It's kind of hard to describe. It tastes like…blue vanilla."

"You mean it's vanilla, but colored blue?"

"Not at all. The blue is part of the taste. It definitely tastes blue."

"Come on, you're making this up," Harry chuckled, squeezing her a little tighter.

"I am not! They don't have it out here in New York, but I swear it's real. If Stephen Tyler can feel like blue, ice cream can taste like blue."

"I see. The famous Aerosmith Defense. Well, never fear, you've got me now. I'll use my vast resources and connections to procure you some of this 'Blue Moon.' I'll even have it delivered right to your door…by a leprechaun. Riding a unicorn."

"Don't tease me about ice cream, it's very close to my heart," she said, nearly swallowing the last word in a huge yawn. "Gosh, I'm sorry. It's just that I have these morning classes. I'm not used to being up all night."

"All night? It's only–" at which point Harry looked at his watch and was surprised to realize it was almost 1:00. "Your dad isn't going to send detectives after you, is he?"

"Don't worry, he knows Missing Persons won't take a claim for 48 hours."

"Too bad, we could probably use a couple cops getting out of the Park. Anyway, you look like you're ready for bed."

She gave him a stern look. "Not on the first date, buster."

On the cab ride to Rockaway Beach, he asked Gwen for her phone number, but she had dozed off on his shoulder. When they reached her house and he roused her, she seemed remarkably bright-eyed for someone who had recently been asleep, but he shrugged it off. She was smiling again, and nothing else in the world mattered when Gwen Stacy smiled.

He saw her to the front door. Standing on the stoop, she bent down and kissed him. "I had a wonderful time," she said, radiant as a princess. Then her expression changed abruptly. "Oh, er, sorry about your hand. I hope you don't mind." She slipped inside before he could ask what she meant.

When he reached out to open the cab door, he understood: she had written her phone number on his hand. Then she had drawn a happy face into the zero. Then, apparently, she had gotten carried away and doodled an army of cheerful little cartoons. No wonder she looked so chipper–she hadn't been sleeping at all!

_Strange night_, he thought, settling back into the cab. _And man, I can't wait for the next one._


	4. Blasphemy

**Chapter 4: Blasphemy**

"Scum. Traitor. Jerk." Peter scowled at his calendar. He wanted to call it a liar, but unfortunately, that was the one thing it wasn't. It really was only two weeks until Mary Jane's wedding, the day when Peter's heart would collapse in on itself like a star gone nova. True, it was entirely his choice that they not be together, and true, it was for her own protection, but that was cold comfort.

Still, every time he felt himself selfishly wishing her into his arms, he forced himself to remember the Green Goblin's hoarse snarl and Doc Ock's icy smile. Both men had targeted MJ when they discovered she was important to him. If Peter hadn't been just a tiny bit stronger, faster, and smarter, she would be dead. And that was simply unthinkable. Too bad Peter had nothing to do but sit around and think about it. He stared out the window, halfway hoping a crook would leap out of the shadows and grab a purse.

_Then again_, _who says Spider-Man can't go on a leisurely evening constitutional?_

He stripped down to his costume, climbed to the top of his building, and took a swan-dive, catching himself just feet from the pavement. Instantly, his heart soared. For Peter Parker, there was no better cure for the blues than a nice web-swing around Manhattan. He lost himself in glorious sensation, first savoring the feel of the wind against his body, then concentrating on the dull roar of city traffic. He moved a little closer to street level and let his heightened senses pick out individual sounds from the commotion.

A young-sounding girl with a posh accent: "and they took me to a psychic and the psychic said I'm, like, dead inside and have nothing going for me."

A middle-aged man with the hurried tones of a businessman: "You know, at 2:30 in the morning, I become, like, a zombie of love."

A geeky-sounding boy: "Dead girls? Come on. I'm afraid of real girls. Dead girls are even scarier."

Peter grinned with recognition at that last one. Yet, the conversations he was picking up had a strangely sinister undertone, so he stopped listening and opened his eyes instead. Even through his costume's plastic eyepieces, New York by night–and air–was stunning. He enjoyed himself for some time, oscillating between keeping an eye out for suspicious behavior and not paying attention to anything in particular, until a voice rose above the city's din.

"Hey! Spider-Man! I'm talking to you!"

Surprised, he let go of his web and flipped in the air, so he was going back the other way. He quickly spotted a woman watching him expectantly from the pavement, and dropped down in front of her. She shoved a _Daily Bugle _extra edition into his hands.

"So what are you gonna do about this?" she demanded.

Peter scanned the headline article. Apparently, a Rabbi Epstein wanted to talk to him about something urgent and was asking him to meet at 10 o'clock that night. Naturally, J.J. had run it as a smear piece, challenging Spider-Man to "listen to local voices," as if he had been ignoring some kind of Spider Signal all this time, as if his little red telephone had been ringing off the hook.

"Do you have the time?" he asked the woman, more politely than he really wanted to.

"You've got ten minutes," she answered, with a hefty dose of skepticism.

"No problem," said Spider-Man.

Six minutes later, he landed with a flourish at the appointed meeting spot. Rabbi Epstein was already there, holding a briefcase. Hanging back in the shadows was a vaguely familiar _Bugle_ staffer. Ned? Ted? Ed? Something like that.

"Spider-Man! I'm glad you came. From what they say about you, I wasn't sure if you would do me the favor."

Spider-Man shrugged. "Bad news sells papers. I could wish you would've picked some _other_ paper, though…."

"For this, I apologize. The _Bugle_ was the only one that would give me a headline."

"I can guess why," Spider-Man said darkly. "But what's done is done–what can I do you for?"

Sadness softened the Rabbi's eyes. "This is a matter of great importance to the Jewish community…and to myself, personally. It would be a considerable mitzvah if you would lend a hand."

"Lay it on me, I'll see what I can do."

"Perhaps you've read in the papers about the recent grave robbing? Bodies going missing?" When Spider-Man shook his head, the Rabbi continued, "No, no, I wouldn't suppose. No victims complaining, nothing valuable stolen. It was never on the front page." He sighed heavily. "To us, it is an offensive thing such that we hardly dare speak of it."

"You're saying that all the stolen corpses were Jewish?"

"Correct. Returning the body to the earth is the most important part of a Jewish burial. Until the body returns to the ash from which it came, the soul cannot rest." The Rabbi opened his briefcase and handed Spider-Man a couple sheets of paper containing dozens of handwritten names, ages, dates, and cemeteries. All had been buried recently, but seemed to have no other traits in common. "This is the most heinous crime that can be committed against our people. Who would do such a thing, I have no idea. And why, I'm not even sure I want to know."

"I don't see a pattern here, either," Spider-Man said. "Have you tried the police?"

"Feh!" spat the Rabbi. "Useless. More evidence, they say. What more do you need?"

"I haven't seen anything suspicious lately. I'll definitely keep an eye out, but I can't promise to see much."

"I said before that this was a personal matter for me. My daughter was one of the–" the Rabbi's breath caught in his throat. From his pocket he pulled a portrait of a smiling woman and handed it to Spider-Man.

Peter's stomach lurched. It was Rosie. Rosalie Octavius. He had known Rosie and liked her; the thought that some ghoul had taken advantage of the fusion catastrophe to steal her body sickened him.

"Whoever's behind this, I'll find them," Spider-Man said firmly. He hoped his cute lab partner would be up for more catch-up, because with roughly zilch to go on, he had a feeling this case would take an awful lot of his study time.

* * *

The next Friday, Harry strolled through Dr. Connors' chem lab, watching the diligent students and stepping a little bit lighter knowing he wasn't one of them anymore. He had always hated chemistry. Not only was the subject incredibly boring, but lab work couldn't be bought or fudged. As far as Harry was concerned, that was a no-win situation.

He noticed a row of doors on the far wall. Private study rooms? He walked over and peeked in the windows. He found Gwen in the third room, smiling and laughing with…Peter. Harry was unable to register this information immediately. Instead, he watched stupidly as Peter laid a hand on hers.

Harry's jealous side raged like a Viking horde. He flung open the door and started yelling.

Although it was specifically Peter he was shouting at, it was Gwen's hand that slapped him silent. She stalked out without a word.

"That's it," Peter growled. "You want to be enemies? You got it!"

"Good!" Harry barked, leaving without a backwards glance.

His father appeared to him as soon as he stepped outside.

"Bad time?" Norman asked, as if he didn't know. Harry took a swing at him, but he dodged effortlessly. "That would have been a great time to kill Peter, you know."

Harry thought for a moment. He was on campus; there must be a bar around somewhere. He started walking. The phantom harangued Harry continuously until he was too drunk to understand the words. This was followed in short order by too drunk to walk, too drunk to stand up, and too drunk to stay conscious.


	5. Jealousy

**Chapter 5: Jealousy**

The next morning, Harry woke up in his own bed with only a sketchy recollection of what he had done the night before. The part where he had acted like a jerk and turned two friends into two enemies, that was crystal clear. After that, not so much.

Bernard had thoughtfully supplied him with a couple Aspirin and a Virgin Mary, which Harry sipped slowly. There was a soft rap at the bedroom door, which he answered with an inarticulate groan. Bernard entered and told him that Gwen was on the phone.

"I took the liberty of silencing the ringer in this room," Bernard explained, and left promptly.

_Whatever I pay him, it's not enough,_ Harry thought as he picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, Harry. It's Gwen. I mean, I guess he told you that already, but I felt kind of stupid saying nothing."

"Hi…uh, this is kind of a surprise. I didn't think you'd ever want to see me again."

"What, just for blowing your top once? Wasn't the slap enough?"

Harry smiled. "I deserved it. I don't know what came over me."

"Really?" She sounded politely skeptical, as though she knew he were lying, but was more interested in finding out whether he would tell her the truth than in what the truth actually was.

"Okay, I do know."

"Care to explain it to me over lunch?"

"Deal."

"Great. I know a place. Pick me up in two hours."

"I can be ready in one."

"You sound like you need a little extra time," she said shrewdly.

She was right. By the time Harry had cleaned up and felt well enough to walk more than ten feet at a clip, ninety minutes had gone by. On his way out, he noticed a long, slim, gift-wrapped package sitting on the end table near the door. He picked it up and examined it curiously. It didn't rattle, and it was just slightly heavier than it looked.

"What's this?" he asked Bernard.

"I believe you said it was a gift for Miss Stacy, sir. Although it was rather hard to tell," he added placidly. Harry wanted to tell the houseman to stop lecturing him, but seven words didn't exactly constitute a lecture, so he satisfied himself with a hard look.

Just to be safe, Harry had summoned Charles to drive. Besides, that way he could pick Gwen up in the Rolls.

"Swanky," she commented admiringly as she got in. "The Three Investigators used to roll in one of these. Did you ever read those books?"

Harry shook his head.

"How about the Hardy Boys? Encyclopedia Brown? Nancy Drew? Well, what _did _you read as a kid?"

"Science books. Non-fiction. I liked dinosaurs," he shrugged.

"No fiction at all? You were a deprived child."

"If you think about it, it's not that different, though…my dad giving me science books and your dad giving you mysteries."

"You're right, I never thought of it that way." Gwen smiled brightly. Then she gave him a little nudge in the ribs. "I used to like dinosaurs, too."

The restaurant wasn't far. It was tiny, but packed, and they had to squeeze through to a table in the back. As soon as they sat down, Gwen said, "All right now. You aren't going to take a swing at the waiter if I look at him funny, are you?"

"Not unless the waiter turns out to be Peter Parker," Harry assured her.

"Ah, so this is a personal thing."

"Yes. And if you're wondering what happened to the girl, we're both going to be guests at her wedding like the chumps we are."

"Mmm, that's a sad story," Gwen murmured thoughtfully. "How come you ended up friends with her and not him?"

"Pete was the one who stabbed me in the back." Harry stirred restlessly in his seat. He found himself less willing to lie to her every time he did it, even though it was just a little omission, even though telling the whole truth–_plus, he killed my dad_–was impossible. "All this is ancient history, anyway. I shouldn't even be thinking about it."

"No," Gwen agreed.

"I'm not such a bad consolation prize," Harry said. He pulled the little box out of his pocket and laid it on the table. "Look, I got you something to say I'm sorry."

"You said you thought you were never going to see me again. You don't have a hundred of these in your closet, do you?" A smile tugged at her lips. She was teasing, but she also wanted the truth.

"I'm never going to get away with anything, am I?" Harry sighed.

"Just be honest, and you'll never have to try."

"I bought it sometime last night after I'd been drinking. I don't know what it is, but I'm pretty sure it's for you," he said, feeling about as smooth as sandpaper.

"Then we'll both be surprised. You didn't have to get me anything, though."

Cheered slightly, Harry quipped, "I apparently wanted to."

Gwen laughed as she flipped open the lid. Then she looked inside, and her pupils contracted visibly. "Okay, I believe you don't have a hundred of these in your closet," she said breathlessly.

She turned the box towards him to reveal a gold bracelet made up of small hearts, into each one of which was set a heart-shaped sapphire. One end terminated in a gold link chain, at the end of which was a thin gold heart etched with Gwen's name.

"This is too much for a second date," she said.

"Don't you want it?"

"Want it? Are you kidding? I want to be _buried _in it. Help me put it on."

Harry fastened the clasp around her wrist, noticing how well the bracelet matched her eyes. _Maybe I should always shop drunk_, he thought.

When the bracelet was secure, Gwen closed her hands around his. "I love it. I really do. I don't think you're a consolation prize."

"Not A Consolation Prize, that's a good first step," Harry grinned. "How many bracelets until I move up to Almost Adequate?"

Gwen made a choking noise. "First, don't even joke about that, I mean it. Second, you misunderstand. This isn't a scale. You can only be the trip to Paris or the lifetime supply of soup."

"Does that make Pete the soup?" Harry asked hopefully.

"I like to think there's some girl out there who thinks of him as the grand prize," Gwen chided.

"Don't worry, there is. Her name is Mary Jane Watson, and she's not getting married next Saturday. I bet he stays home to sulk and misses the whole thing."

* * *

Harry knew his friends well. Peter did stay home, and was completely surprised when Mary Jane appeared in his doorway in her wedding gown.

He still had an awful lot more on his shoulders than most college students, but the burden felt lighter with MJ beside him. He hadn't realized how lonely it had been, being a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man with no friends to confide in.

He told MJ about the Rabbi's mystery, and although she didn't have any ideas right away, she promised to do some research to see if they could get an idea why someone would specifically choose Jewish graves to rob. Maybe then, she thought, they could get an idea where the robber might strike next, and Spider-Man could use his stakeout time more effectively.

Meanwhile, crime seemed to be running an all-time low. Even when he saw suspicious activity, Spider-Man's investigations turned up nothing but medical supply shipments more often than not. Not all of them were to the same company or the same location, but overall, it looked like someone was trying to build a small-to-medium-sized hospital. And, try as he might, he could see no harm in that, even if it was a little weird.

He had final exams coming up, so he took advantage of the crime drought to study. With Mary Jane keeping his spirits up and Gwen helping him in Chemistry, he caught up quickly and felt he'd earned his scholarship for that semester. Shortly after finals was Aunt May's birthday.

She had evidently continued to see Dr. Hollingsworth, and despite her insistence that she had made many friends at Harry's club and Beau was just one, Peter wasn't satisfied. He had been expecting Harry to take them out to some ostentatious place for dinner, but apparently it was Beau who was paying the bills for Aunt May now. Nothing in the file Harry had given Peter was very alarming–except the five divorces, and those Peter couldn't get out of his head. _At least you know he's not after her money_, he told himself, but it didn't help much.

He got on his moped and sped off to meet Mary Jane at her apartment. He wasn't entirely sure how they were both going to get to the restaurant, but he figured he'd think of something. When he got there, she didn't answer the door, but he had a key (_I have a key!_ he thought, a little trill of excitement running up his back) so he just let himself in.

"Come on, Mary Jane, we're going to be late," he called.

"Relax, the car won't leave without us," she called back, voice muffled and echoey. He guessed she was in the bathroom.

"What car?"

"The car Dr. Hollingsworth sent. He didn't want me to get my gown dirty, riding on your scooter. What a gentleman, huh?"

"I hate him," Peter said, with some venom. He already hated that he couldn't provide for the two most important women in his life, but he hated being beaten over the head with the fact even more.

"Oh, yeah, me too." Her tone was so airy Peter had no idea if she was kidding or not.

Peter looked at the clock. "It's ten to, we gotta go." He smiled. "Are you doing this on purpose?" he teased.

"Of course! I have to make an entrance, don't I?"

Mary Jane Watson was an expert at making an entrance. She had quite probably never entered any room containing Peter Parker without him noticing. Now, she twirled in like a runway model, letting her hunter green silk gown float, cloud-like, around her ankles. She spread her arms gracefully so he could get a better look. "And?"

And, Peter would have complimented her, if he hadn't temporarily lost the power of speech. The color was perfect, and the gown…well…the gown….

Mary Jane smiled brightly and swooped down to kiss him. "Thank you, that's the best compliment I've had all year. Now let's get a move-on, we're going to be late!"

Peter bit back his complaints about the car, since there really was no comparison trying to stuff them both on the back of his moped. Instead, he concentrated on MJ's gown…and her hair, and her perfume, and her general spectacularity. When they arrived at the restaurant, they found Harry and Beau waiting at the bar. Harry introduced them both to Beau, who kissed Mary Jane's hand.

Before he could ask where Aunt May was, Gwen arrived. Harry introduced her to Beau, who kissed her hand as well. "Aren't you just the spitting image of Miss Sandra Dee," he chuckled, admiring her vintage taffeta cocktail dress.

"Mary Jane is the actress, but…" she shrugged, grinning. "Hey, where's the guest of honor?"

"She's on her way," Harry said. "She called about twenty minutes ago to say she had some car trouble."

"What? How's she getting here?" Peter demanded, instantly alarmed. This wasn't important enough to say right away?

"Cab," Harry answered curtly. Then, as though Peter were dragging it out of him, he elaborated, "It's covered, don't worry about it."

Like so many aspects of this night, Peter wasn't totally convinced. But then, as if to prove him wrong, Aunt May arrived. In a pink Chanel suit and pillbox hat, she looked for all the world like the matriarch of the kind of family that would have a "matriarch."

"The night sky is three stars dimmer tonight," Beau purred unctuously, but, to Peter's relief, did not get up from his seat.

The maitre d' appeared to usher them to their table.

"We were worried about you, Aunt May," Peter said, squeezing her hand lightly.

"Didn't Harry tell you I had car trouble?"

"Yeah, but…" Peter mumbled, wishing he had a better answer. He could practically feel Harry's glare on the back of his head.

"Now, now, let's not let it spoil the evening. You know how fussy the old girl can be." Aunt May smiled cheerfully. Peter ruefully reminded himself that this was her night, not the time to work through his own insecurities.

"Hey, fink," said Gwen behind him, and Peter had to turn and look to realize she was talking to Harry. D'oh. Score one for insecurity.

"Why'd you call me a fink?" Harry asked, sounding amused.

"Because you're a fink, fink. You told me 6:30. The maitre d' told me the reservation wasn't until 7."

"It's quarter after 7, Gwendybird."

"That's not the point."

"You aren't the most punctual person in the world. I figured if I told you 6:30, you might be on time."

Mary Jane dropped back a little bit so that she was walking beside Gwen. "I love your bracelet. Can I take a look? Aw, it even has your name…."

"Thanks. Harry got it for me."

"Ooh, serious," MJ teased.

"Just a little apology for being a fink," Harry said nonchalantly.

They arranged themselves around the table, Aunt May and Beau on either end, with Peter on her right hand and Harry on her left. Dinner was delicious, and although Harry and Peter weren't speaking to each other, there was plenty of conversation to be had. Beau told a few stories from the days when all he owned was a cotton plantation, and Mary Jane had witnessed a surprising number of backstage shenanigans. Peter listened quietly, both amused and frustrated, knowing his stories would beat them all, if only he could tell them. He noticed that Gwen also stayed quiet, but watched everyone attentively.

Meanwhile, Aunt May basked in the cheerful company and lush surroundings like a cat in a sunny spot. Gwen and Mary Jane seemed to have no trouble mixing with high rollers like Beau and Harry. From the look of things, it was only Peter who felt out of place. _So, what's your problem?_ he asked himself. _Think you deserve hamburger instead of filet mignon?_ He turned his head to look at Mary Jane. The movement attracted her attention, and she smiled at him. He smiled back. _Filet all the way, baby_.

By the time Beau invited them all back to his country house for after-dinner cocktails and gift-unwrapping, Peter was feeling much more cheerful about the whole night. Beau made them mint juleps–Gwen split one with Harry, then had another one of her own. Mary Jane let Peter sample hers.

He didn't much care for the taste of alcohol, nor did he want his judgement impaired when he could be called away at any time to save a life. He could barely taste the liquor in this drink, but it was too sweet for his palate anyway. Harry had a couple, although Peter was starting to think Harry would drink Listerine if he were really hard up.

"You'd better start with ours," said Peter, when it was time for presents.

"It won't take much unwrapping," Mary Jane added.

It was a gift basket full of chocolates and things that taste good dipped in chocolate.

"My favorite," Aunt May exclaimed, sampling one of the toffees.

"I know what you like," Peter grinned. "Mary Jane and I made everything ourselves."

"We borrowed your recipe for toffee and my mother's recipe for shortbread," said MJ

"It's beautiful. I love it. Thank you, darlings."

"Seems I've been outdone," Beau said, but as he had through the entire evening, he seemed completely untroubled. "Mine's homemade, after a fashion." He handed her two boxes, one big and flat, the other big and round.

Aunt May lifted the lid of the flat box to reveal a brightly colored sun dress. The round box held a matching hat, decorated with dried sunflowers.

"All the materials came from my farms–straw for the hat, cotton for the dress, the flowers–everything."

"And how did you put all this together? Don't tell me you sew in your spare time," Aunt May asked.

"No, ma'am, that's one skill I never acquired. It so happens I have a textile factory up here."

"My goodness, what a renaissance man. I thought you only had er–what was it again?"

"Biotechnology."

"Oh yes, of course. Hm." Aunt May returned to admiring the dress.

"That's kind of a leap, from agriculture to biotech," Gwen commented.

Beau smiled. "It's all in where your interest lies, my dear. I myself have always wanted to devote myself to the service of mankind. It's only recently that I've had the opportunity to do so."

_Oh, man_, thought Peter, _this guy is like a guest star on a Very Special Episode of _Green Acres. He was almost too innocent. So innocent it was suspicious! _Okay there, Spidey, now you're just being paranoid_.

Harry's box was the smallest of all, and Peter thought he knew what that meant.

"It's not handmade, but I hope you like it anyway," Harry said.

Aunt May read from a small tag, "'April showers bring May flowers. Love, Harry.' Aren't you sweet?" She opened the box and gasped. "Good heavens, they're beautiful! Trillium and freesia…exquisite."

Beau leaned over to peek inside, grinned broadly, and winked at Harry.

Aunt May handed the box to Peter. It contained six gorgeous jeweled hairpins in the shape of two different flowers.

"Wow," he said.

"_Wow_," said MJ Peter thought he caught a whiff of jealousy, and had to remind himself that MJ dumped Harry for him. She knew perfectly well she could have gifts like Gwen's bracelet and Aunt May's hairpins, and she gave it up. Secretly, though, Peter always wondered if she would wake up one day and decide she never should have traded the new car for Door Number Three.

"Pete," Gwen groaned, "You're grinding your teeth again."

"Sorry," Peter mumbled.

They all chatted for a little while longer, and soon the night seemed to be winding down.

"Well," said Aunt May, "I certainly feel blessed to have all of you here with me to celebrate. Thank you all for coming, and Beau, thank you for hosting."

"'Tweren't nothing," Beau protested amiably.

"Mary Jane, Gwen, are you planning on keeping my boys up later?" she asked.

"Not me," said Gwen, yawning. "I've got class." She giggled loopily. "I mean at the university," she clarified.

"I've got an early audition tomorrow," said Mary Jane.

"That works out splendidly, then. I have a little business to go over with them before they leave."

The girls said their good-byes and left. As they walked, Gwen's voice traveled back through the marble-lined echo chamber Beau called a foyer, "Did you hear what I said? You'd think I really was Sandra Dee…."

After their laughter died out and it seemed certain they were gone, Aunt May was all business. "Peter, please wait in the other room."

"Oh-kay," he said, not understanding. The next room was filled with all kinds of musical instruments. Idly, Peter plunked a few keys on a piano and examined a largish collection of recorders that stood at attention in a bay window.

After a few long minutes, Harry opened the door, looking forlorn. Peter followed him back into the parlor.

"Peter, did you know Harry hired a private investigator to spy on Beau?" Aunt May demanded, with no preamble. The look she fixed on him could bore a hole through concrete. He knew it well.

"Yes," he said.

"And what did you do when you found out?" she asked.

"I read the report," he admitted.

"For shame. I am terribly disappointed in you," she said, shaking her head. "I simply cannot believe that it occurred to neither of you to mind your own business. To invade the privacy of a perfect stranger, why, it boggles the mind."

Peter was feeling good and ashamed when Beau himself spoke up.

"Now, May, we discussed this. I know your boys were just looking out for their auntie, nothing wrong with that."

_What is this, Good Cop/Bad Cop? _Peter thought. He was so surprised, he forgot to be annoyed that Harry had once again been referred to as May's real nephew.

Aunt May said, "You two are both very lucky Beau wasn't bothered by your appalling behavior. Had he been, I would have had a lot more to say."

"It's not as though I have anything to hide," Beau shrugged, unflappable as ever.

Harry stood up, so that he was face-to-face with Beau. "I'm very sorry, sir. I should never have done what I did. It's like you said: I was just trying to look out for Mrs. Parker. To be honest, I didn't think you would ever have to know."

Aunt May looked mortified at Harry's last statement, but Beau smiled. "Apology accepted. Don't try to teach grandpa to suck eggs, son."

Sensing the need to jump in with his own apology, Peter sucked up his objections and offered, "I'm sorry too. That stuff was none of my business."

"Well, that's all right. I just hope your curiosity was satisfied."

Peter nodded ruefully. Yeah, satisfied wasn't exactly the word.

"That's that," said Aunt May. "I hope you boys have learned your lesson."

She kissed Harry, who was closer to her, and sent him on his way, then did the same with Peter. Harry wandered toward the door, holding a hand to his cheek as though she had slapped it.

"What's with you?" Peter asked as they walked out.

"Nothing."

Peter waited. If he knew Harry….

"Nothing," Harry repeated. "I do stupid stuff and drive away the people I care about. It's not like that's news to you."

"Whoa there, that almost sounded like an apology," said Peter.

Harry hesitated again. "I'm sorry I blew up. The way you and Gwen were sitting, it kind of…reminded me of old times."

Peter knew what he was talking about; actually, that talk with MJ in the hospital, when Peter had first told her how he felt about her, was one of his favorite memories. Of course, when he replayed it in his mind, he omitted the part where Harry caught them together.

"I didn't know you still thought about that," Peter said honestly.

"I don't. I mean, I shouldn't. Can't seem to let it go, though." They had made it out to Beau's enormous front steps, and Harry stopped and wavered at the top, as though he had decided moving forward was a bad idea all along.

"What about Gwen?"

At the mention of her name, Harry brightened up. "You're right. I don't know what I'm doing thinking about your girl when I've got Gwendy."


	6. Betrayal

**Chapter 6: Betrayal**

_Dear Harry,_

_It hurts to write this, but I feel there is no other way to get through to you._

_Our relationship isn't working. You obviously trust alcohol more than you trust me, and I can't be with someone like that. It would be one thing if you just had a drinking problem, but you don't seem to want to help yourself._

_I've gone to stay with my relatives in London. Maybe we can be together again, if you can prove yourself. Get help._

_-Gwen Stacy_

Harry read the letter over ten, twenty times, more. He kept moving his eyes over it, willing the letters to dissolve, swim around, and reform into something better. They did not.

Only last night, Harry had gotten the best night's sleep he'd had in two years. Everything seemed to be going right. He hadn't fought with Peter, he hadn't driven Aunt May off. Gwen had been nothing but her sweet self the whole night. And now this. Every time he felt as though he could stand up and walk, somebody swept his feet out from under him.

"Haven't you learned your lesson yet?"

It was the Green Goblin again. Harry felt slimy just being around the thing. He ignored it.

Unfortunately, the Goblin was nothing if not persistent. "Didn't I tell you never to trust anyone who isn't family? Didn't I say in plain English you wouldn't be happy until you avenged my death?"

"You did this," Harry snarled.

"Oh, no, don't hang this on me, loverboy. It says right there in black and white, it's _you_ she can't stand. Had to put a whole ocean between you," he taunted.

"Shut up. I hate you. I hate you!" Suddenly furious, Harry stalked to his father's mask collection and picked one, his least favorite. Yes, he had always hated this one. He plucked it from its stand and hurled it through the mirror, reveling in the smash and crash. Filled with rage, he felt huge. He barged into the Goblin's cache and looked it all over.

The Goblin was right behind him. "Why hate me? I'm just trying to help. Why not hate the treasonous tart instead?"

As the Goblin said the words, Harry saw himself in the armor and wildly grinning mask, a righteous Cheshire Cat chasing down a terrified Alice. When he caught her, he spun her around, intending to savor her look of terror.

Instead, that look snapped him back to reality. The glass and debris littering the floor were no longer markers of triumph, just reminders that his inner voice had been right all along. He was totally useless. The only thing he'd ever been good at was destroying things. He was terrible at making friends, worse at keeping them, and he'd even shattered this same damn mirror twice in a month. Had he seriously considered harming Gwen, whom he loved so much, just because she didn't love him back? _If I killed everyone who didn't like me back, there would be bodies stacked from here to Poughkeepsie, _he thought bitterly.

"I am a terrible person," he said out loud. The sound soothed him. It seemed very real compared to the Goblin's voice, which sounded hollow and false in his memory. He looked down at the floor. A dozen Harrys stared back up at him. He willed himself to move and found a bed sheet, which he tacked up just inside the mirror-portal, so that it concealed the space behind. Then he called for his car. He had to find out the whole story.

Before Captain Stacy could open his door completely, Harry demanded, "Where's Gwen?"

Looking pale and much older than he ever had before, Captain Stacy gestured Harry into the parlor. Harry noticed that the Captain took his time and winced painfully when he sat down.

"Um…are you okay?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling rather selfish.

"Gwendolyn has gone to stay with her aunt and uncle in London. I guess I just miss having her around."

"Then she really is gone. Did she talk to you about why she left?"

"No, she was frustratingly vague on that point. Did you two have a fight?" The Captain was eyeing the letter in Harry's hand.

"If you could call this a fight," Harry muttered, handing him the letter.

The captain read it twice, holding it in trembling hands. Finally, he looked up, taking Harry in in the same methodical way he had when they'd first met.

"Then she said nothing to you before this?"

Harry shook his head.

"Is there any truth to it?" the captain asked evenly.

"No! I didn't…I mean, I don't think I ever…had too many…in front of her. It's true I didn't tell her much about my problems. I didn't want to bother her." Harry studied the captain's shoes.

"I see. Has anyone else seen this letter?"

"No."

The captain stood and walked away for a bit, leaving Harry to stare at the carpet. He forced himself to look up again when the captain returned. The letter was gone, and the captain was carrying two teacups, one of which he handed to Harry.

"What are you going to do now?" Captain Stacy asked.

"Could I ask you a question, sir?"

"Of course, Harry. I didn't mean to interrogate you. Old habits," he added with a ghost of a smile.

"Gwen told me once that she had seen all types of people, and she thought all of them got worse than they deserved. We were talking about capital punishment." Harry paused to collect his thoughts. "What I want to know is, if a girl like Gwen, who could look at the worst scum in the city and see lives worth saving, couldn't see the same in me…does that mean I'm not worth saving?" This thought, which had lurked at the fringes of Harry's subconscious for as long as he could remember, terrified him so much that he trembled as he said it.

"No," the captain answered at once. "I don't believe that, and I don't think Gwen does, either. She cares about you. I ought to know, I've had to hear about it every day for a month." He smiled wryly, but the smile faded into a brooding grimace. When he spoke again, it was hesitantly, as if he weren't sure about the advice he was giving.

"If there's any truth to what this letter says, I can hardly advise you not to get help. I'm sure you'll make the right choice."

"Thank you, sir." Harry set his full teacup down on an end table and rose to leave.

"You go ahead and get better, and maybe Gwen will be waiting for you when you're through. Just remember, I'm behind you."

"You're kidding," Harry said, incredulous. He wanted to add, "What kind of a father are you?" but thought better of it.

"You say that as if it were up to me," the captain sighed. "Gwen will do what she'll do no matter what I think about it. I just hope this all works out for the best."

* * *

"You're kidding," said Peter into Mary Jane's phone. 

Mary Jane herself entered, saw Peter, and then saw the single red rose he had gotten her, where he had left it in a vase on her countertop. She made a series of silent film-style expressions to show her delight without interrupting his conversation. How could anyone look at that face and not fall instantly and irrevocably in love?

"Okay, Aunt May, I'll tell her. I love you, too. Bye." Peter hung up the phone. "So, how'd the audition go?"

"Perfect. I totally nailed it. I got myself a little something to celebrate," said Mary Jane, holding up a small bottle of iced coffee, the kind that convenience stores sell for a buck and a half. Peter was about to commiserate with her on her poverty, but before he could say a word, she winked and added, "Oh, yeah, and I got a new dress." She pulled it out of the shopping bag and showed it off, although Peter hardly felt he could render a verdict without seeing it on her. "What did Aunt May want you to tell me?"

Peter took a deep breath. "It's Harry. I guess he went into rehab today. You know, one of those Club Med kind of places that rich people go."

Mary Jane nodded, unsurprised. "For drinking, huh?"

"You knew?"

She shrugged, a little too casual. "What convinced him to get help? He's okay, right?"

"I don't know about okay. According to Aunt May, Gwen dumped him pretty hard."

At that, Mary Jane gave a start, her face rearranging from resigned understanding to complete confusion.

Peter continued, "She got on a plane to Europe this morning and didn't say when she'd be back. Left a note saying she thought he had a problem and he had to shape up before she would see him again."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Gee, I thought of all people, you'd understand–"

"Peter, just because Harry isn't my cup of tea doesn't mean he has no good points," Mary Jane scolded. "Gwen and I shared a car last night. At eleven o'clock she was crazy for him, now you're saying a couple hours later she can't get far enough away?"

"Maybe he went to see her after dinner. They could have had a fight."

"Harry wouldn't go to see her so late knowing she had an early class. He was always really considerate about that stuff."

"Okay, so what do you think is going on?"

"I don't know." Mary Jane blew out a puff of air in frustration. "It just doesn't seem right somehow."

"Yeah, but look on the bright side: at least Harry's getting the help he needs. Maybe he'll come back better than ever."

"I know, but…" Mary Jane moved over to Peter and wrapped her arms around him, "I don't know what this means."

"I already have one big mystery to solve," Peter told her gently, "This one isn't any of my business."


	7. Lazarus

**Chapter 7: Lazarus**

Two weeks into Harry's rehabilitation, Spider-Man was contacted by Rabbi Epstein, again via the front page of the Bugle: _Spider-Man Missing in Action_. Thanks, Jonah!

"Rabbi, I'm sorry I haven't come up with anything in all this time, but I promise you I've been watching–"

"Yes, yes, I know. You've terrified every groundskeeper this side of Jersey. It was a mistake to ask such a big job of only one person. Even a spider man can't be everywhere at once, yes?"

"That's for sure. So what's the new plan?"

"For the last six weeks, I've been adding names to that list I gave you. Then two nights ago, it occurred to me: whoever is robbing the graves has been doing so closer and closer to the time of burial. When I contacted you the first time, the bodies had often been buried a day or more before being taken. Now, it's only a matter of hours."

That set off a flag in Spider-Man's head. Something Mary Jane had told him from her research. "The bodies have to be buried within a day of death, isn't that right?"

"That is traditional, correct."

Thinking out loud, Spider-Man continued, "So maybe the robbers want fresh bodies for some reason, and this is the best way to do it–it's not a hate crime at all."

"Young man, any crime that affects one population disproportionately is a hate crime, and an insidious one at that."

The Rabbi opened his briefcase and gave Spider-Man another sheaf of papers. "The updated victim list. I've asked the area Rabbis to let me know about any upcoming burials. Now, if there were some way to contact you quickly, we might have something resembling a plan…."

"All right, I get the picture. You can call this number and just tell whoever answers what's going on. The message will get to me," Spider-Man said, writing down MJ's number. "Man, do I need one of those little red telephones."

Rabbi Epstein nodded, tucking the number into his briefcase.

"Um, just one thing, Rabbi, I hate to ask…. Do you think, when all this is over, that you could lose that number? It belongs to someone close to me, and I hate to put them in any more danger than I need to."

"_Versteht_. I promise never to use it again. Or give it to any ambitious newspapermen," he added, eyes twinkling. At that moment, he reminded Peter strongly of Rosie. She had had the same gentle hazel eyes.

Relieved, Spider-Man webbed off into the night, to let Mary Jane know that she'd be serving as a temporary Spidey Hotline.

Fortunately, they didn't have long to wait. Not two days after Spider-Man's kibbutz with the Rabbi, Mary Jane got a phone call. She relayed the information to Peter, who thanked his lucky stars the trees were starting to get their leaves back, and parked himself in a huge elm overlooking the burial site.

Just as the Rabbi said, it didn't take very long for the robbers to make their move. Peter watched the groundskeeper do his rounds, and then, exactly half an hour after he had closed up shop for the night, an unmarked black van drove up to the gravesite. These robbers had gotten their caper down to a science. Six men hopped out the back, and Spider-Man was shocked to see that he recognized four of them. All were petty crooks he had put away, two of them multiple times–career criminals. He wrote down the tag number, and the make and model of the van.

Spider-Man watched as the six men swiftly dug up the body and loaded it into the van. By his watch, it took about fifteen minutes. They didn't bother to take the casket or fill in the hole. When they were all in the van, Spider-Man hopped nimbly on top. He thought he heard a comment from inside, but there was no way they could see him, and they weren't stopping to see if there were any strange arachnids stuck to the top of their van. So far, so good.

They didn't seem concerned about being followed, so Spider-Man had an easy time remembering their route. Until the impossible happened. Just as the van turned a corner, the Green Goblin turned another, and he and Spider-Man were face-to-face again. He hovered for a moment, like a gunslinger waiting for the sheriff to draw.

_Harry_, was Spider-Man's first thought, although he didn't want to believe it. The Goblin sped towards him, glider's bayonet extended. That confirmed Spider-Man's suspicions–only someone who hadn't seen how their last fight turned out would bother charging him from the front.

"I don't want to hurt you!" he shouted, dodging the blade easily.

"How kind," the Goblin sneered, circling for another attack. This time, he moved in closer and landed a glancing punch that only hit at all because Spider-Man was unwilling to abandon the van. Unfortunately, the Goblin seemed to want Spider-Man off the van as much as Spider-Man wanted to stay on it. For the third pass, he pulled out the big guns–literally.

Spider-Man couldn't take the chance. Super powers he might have, but being bulletproof wasn't one of them. He leapt high in the air, hoping to clear the Goblin's ugly mask and swing back to the van, but the Goblin was too quick for him–he changed trajectory and slammed his shoulder into Spider-Man's unprotected stomach. Spider-Man tried to right himself, but he was too surprised and winded to catch himself properly, and he landed hard on the pavement. When he got up, both the van and the Goblin were gone.

_This is how Houdini died_, he mused as he hobbled to the sidewalk. _But why would the Green Goblin attack me and then back off? Could it be there's still some of Harry left in there, and if so, can I get through to him somehow? And what am I going to tell Rabbi Epstein?_

Aching, Spider-Man dragged himself home.

* * *

The next morning, Harry woke up feeling like he'd been reincarnated as a frat house carpet. The only thing that prodded him out of bed was knowing he would feel better after breakfast. He always felt better after breakfast, because ever since his second day at the clinic, it had been served to him by Felicia Hardy, the most wonderful woman in the world.

She had already eaten, but she stayed and watched him. That was all right by Harry; he liked watching her, too. Felicia Hardy had short platinum blonde hair and her eyes were such a pale blue they were nearly transparent. She was beautiful, but even better, she had a personality to match. She was infinitely patient, just shy enough to be cute, and she seemed to want nothing more than to be around Harry all the time. A couple times, he had tried deliberately to annoy her, to see if it could be done. She just laughed. In short, she was perfect.

"Hey, I'm sorry about conking out on you last night. I've been so tired recently, I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you, angel, you've just been busy–what with all the soul-searching and sports-playing, it's a wonder we aren't all in bed the second the evening news ends. Besides, you beat me at tennis yesterday. That's a lot for any one man."

"I guess so. It's just that, ever since I met you, I feel like I could climb ten mountains a day and still get a singles match in after dinner. But then, every night after dinner–" he snapped his fingers. "It's like somebody cut my strings."

"Maybe you should talk to Dr. Hamilton about it."

"He says I should just relax more during the day." He transferred a fried egg to a piece of toast and took a bite. "It could work, I guess."

"You should do that. I want us both to get better, baby," she purred, taking his free hand in both of hers. Harry had never thought about it with any of his other girlfriends, but he loved how tiny and doll-like her hands looked next to his. It made him feel powerful. In fact, in his entire life, he had never felt so good as he did around Felicia. His pulse quickened, and his breath fluttered in his chest. Forget climbing mountains, he felt like he could juggle them.

After breakfast, they ambled out to the atrium. Several people were relaxing in deck chairs, reading the morning paper. That was where Harry saw it.

"No," he whispered.

Felicia looked up at him, questioning.

Harry snatched a spare paper from an end table, staring in horror at the photo. He couldn't even read the headline; his eyes refused to focus long enough to get from the left side of a word to the right.

"What's it say?" he asked Felicia.

"'Green Goblin Strikes Again,'" she read.

"That's not possible," Harry said weakly, sinking into a chair.

Felicia laid the back of her hand on his forehead. "You feel warm. I'm going to get Dr. Hamilton, you stay right there."

It suddenly seemed very bright outside. Harry put his head in his hands and tried not to think, but he couldn't get away from the awful truth. _It was me, it was me, it had to be, no one else knows. No one knows but Peter and he wouldn't do this. He wouldn't. I wouldn't either, though. But I was passed out. Who knows what I would do?_

He felt a pair of delicate hands on his shoulders before he heard Felicia's voice saying his name. He looked up, and she was there with Dr. Hamilton.

"My God, you're so pale–you look like you've seen a ghost!" Felicia cried.

Harry laughed at that, because it was so true. Laughing was inappropriate, but it wouldn't have been problematic had he been able to stop on his own. Instead, nervous energy bubbled through his veins and up to his brain and he laughed and laughed hysterically, like a lunatic. It wasn't until several minutes later that he regained his composure and found himself in Dr. Hamilton's office.

"Harry?" the doctor was saying. "Harry, how do you feel?"

"Fine," Harry answered flatly. "Why am I so…uh…." He raised a hand and let it drop back down on the armrest, surprised at how hard it hit considering how light it felt.

"I've given you a mild sedative. You were experiencing a minor manic episode. Do you feel well enough to talk about it?"

"I guess."

"Miss Hardy tells me you were reading this morning's newspaper when you saw something troubling. What was it?"

"The headline. It said the Green Goblin is back. That's not possible," he repeated, as if by saying it, he could make it so. Harry tried lifting both hands at once. His hands went flying into the air as if he were standing on the moon. "Did you really have to dope me up?"

"Why did you panic when you saw the newspaper?"

"I thought it might be me."

"Surely you know whether you did or did not attack Spider-Man last night?"

"No. I passed out after dinner last night. I don't remember anything until this morning."

"I see. And you haven't been drinking?"

"No."

"Drugs?"

"No." Harry wanted to be offended at these questions, but somehow he couldn't work up the motivation.

"Then you believe you may have entered some sort of fugue state, is that it?"

"A what?"

Hamilton smiled. "Allow me to ease your mind. There is nothing in your medical history to suggest you are even capable of what you're saying."

Harry nodded. It made him a little dizzy.

"Now then, let's look at your intake form. You have no history of physical abuse, no family history of mental illness, no hallucinations or non-drug-related blackouts–"

"I lied. On that last one."

"You've had blackouts before?"

"Hallucinations."

"Why didn't you tell me this before? You know I can't help you unless you tell me everything," Dr. Hamilton said sternly.

"Sorry. I haven't had any since I've been here. I didn't think it mattered."

"The important thing is that you're coming clean now." The unctuous smile was back.

To Harry's relief, Hamilton thought the hallucinations were probably brought on by stress and would not require regular medication. Instead, he prescribed a mild sedative to be taken as needed. Harry hoped it would be enough.


	8. Felicia

**Chapter 8: Felicia**

The rest of Harry's stay proceeded as planned. The Green Goblin made three more brief appearances, but there was nothing Harry could do about it short of asking the nurses to chain him to his bed. Dr. Hamilton referred him to another psychiatrist, and Harry hoped regular therapy would stop his unconscious marauding. At least he wasn't causing any major damage, just a little trouble for Spider-Man. And even that, Harry told himself, wasn't such a bad thing–without a _little_ trouble, Pete couldn't make a living selling pictures of Spider-Man.

Even so, Harry was so anxious about what he might be doing that he felt guilty whenever he caught himself not worrying. Felicia was making it difficult to feel bad, though. Despite his worries, he never wanted to be away from her.

They were both scheduled to finish their programs on the same day, and although he didn't want to let her out of his sight, he insisted they spend they day apart and meet for breakfast the next morning. That would give him plenty of time to check on what needed checking, and make a few other little arrangements.

When he got home the morning of his release, Bernard greeted him about as cheerfully as he ever did. Harry gave him the day off. The last thing he needed was to wonder whether someone was going to walk in at an inopportune moment. His plan was derailed immediately anyway, though, because Aunt May was waiting for him. Still, it was a nice visit, and it was gratifying that she had come all that way to congratulate and wish him well.

It was getting to be afternoon when Aunt May left, and Harry wanted to get to Tiffany's that day. He felt feverish, so he put the top down on his convertible. He drove too fast, and the wind ran cool fingers through his hair. He knew just what he wanted at the jewelry store, so he picked it up quickly and went home, glad he had decided to drive instead of just having it delivered.

That was the easy part, though. Harry got home and locked himself in the study. He was aware that he was being paranoid, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. He searched the study top to bottom, determined to find the switch that opened the mirror. Obviously, his father hadn't broken the mirror every time he wanted in, so there must be some mechanism…if only his hands would stop shaking….

After turning the rest of the room upside-down, Harry went to work on the bookshelves. He had hoped to avoid pulling every book off the shelves, but the switch was proving elusive. He scanned the books first, to see if anything looked out of place. Norman had a nice collection of science texts on the left-hand side of the mirror, and classic fiction on the other side. From a distance, they all looked the same, and as Harry had rarely been allowed into this room, he had never much concerned himself with these books. The titles astonished him.

Norman Osborn had collected three shelves of science fiction, everything from pulp (the novelization of _The Wrath of Khan_) to classic (_Childhood's End_). Aside from that, a well-thumbed copy of Harold Pinter plays, and an apparently untouched collection of Shakespeare's sonnets, there wasn't much English literature; the rest was German and Scandinavian.

Harry's eyes passed over _The Sorrows of Young Werther_, _Fear and Trembling_, _The Atheist_, _Seven Gothic Tales_, and settled on _Beyond Good and Evil_. On a hunch, Harry pulled it out. Peering into the space, he couldn't make out much of anything. He also pulled out _The Will to Power_ and that left enough of a gap to stick his hand in. The mirror swung inward on silent hinges.

Fingertips prickling, Harry walked into the crawlspace. Sweat ran into his eyes, and he wiped off his forehead with a shirt sleeve. Everything was gone–the glider, the armor, the bombs, even the little green vials. Harry was the only living person who knew about this room; even Peter would have needed to tear up the townhouse and smash the mirror to find it. As insane as it sounded, Harry must have somehow sneaked out of the clinic, located the button, gotten into the secret cache, torn up Manhattan, and then forgotten all about it. Four times.

It was insane, sure, but so was the idea that noted businessman Norman Osborn would blow up his board of directors. So was the idea that brilliant scientist Otto Octavius would be brainwashed by his own mechanical arms. Numbly, Harry walked back out, hit the switch, and tidied up the study. After picking up, he took the convertible out again and stocked up on coffee and videos, but he couldn't have slept even if he wanted to.

By the time he met Felicia for breakfast, he was jumpy, sweaty, and irritable, none of which he wanted to be on this, of all days. He was a little early, so he ordered their drinks and spiked hers with the bauble he'd bought at Tiffany's. Felicia arrived soon after, with a second beautiful blonde.

Felicia squeezed his hand. "Darling, I'm terribly sorry about the short notice, but my mother insisted on coming along to meet you."

"Lydia Hardy. I've heard so much about you."

"Oh…uh…nice to meet you," Harry said, nodding. He was sweating again, and he couldn't get his hands to stop shaking. _Just nerves_, he thought. _Nothing to worry about_….

Felicia tilted her head to one side and pouted. "You look just awful, honey. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm fine, I just didn't sleep well is all."

"Aw, did you miss me?"

"Sure did," Harry said, glad she had asked a question he didn't need to lie about.

"You'll feel better after you have a nice breakfast." She picked up her champagne flute and took a sip.

"What is that, a mimosa?" Lydia asked sharply.

"I had them make it with club soda."

Lydia arched an eyebrow at that, but Felicia just giggled, "How sweet."

Much to Harry's horror, she left him alone with her mother, claiming to need a trip to the ladies' room before the food arrived. However, Lydia Hardy turned out to be a bright and engaging conversationalist, rather like Gwen. Lydia had channeled some of her family's wealth into a charity organization that funded a diverse set of art and science endeavors. Harry was heartened to learn that she had found Otto Octavius' research promising and given him a sizeable grant.

By the end of the post-meal coffee, Harry felt like a new man. Energy flooded through him, infusing him with wit and charm. Before breakfast, he had doubted himself, but as Felicia neared the bottom of her drink, he tapped his fingers on his knees in giddy anticipation.

At the last sip, Felicia made a little face. Lydia, deep into a lecture on the crucial differences between Monet and Manet, didn't even notice. But Harry noticed, and watched Felicia transfer her coffee cup to the table and upend her mimosa. The diamond engagement ring he had planted there tinkled musically down the champagne flute and into the saucer.

Just as he'd hoped, she gasped in delight and picked it up to get a better look. Lydia tried to get Felicia to hold it still, but Felicia was too busy dipping the ring in her water glass and sliding it onto her finger.

"Is that a yes?" Harry asked.

Felicia smiled, showing off her expensive orthodontic work. "Darling, you are going to be happy for the rest of your life."

* * *

Mary Jane Watson flipped through her Cosmo with increasing vigor. She watched Peter take his umpteenth lap around her living room and took a deep breath. "Peter dear, if you wear a hole in that floor, the landlord won't give my deposit back."

Peter forced himself to sit down. "I'm sorry, MJ, it's just–aren't you worried?"

"I have the resident superhero to protect me. Besides, it's not like he's done anything really terrible."

"Only because I stopped him."

"He damages a water tower, he hassles commuters, he blows up a stoplight…it's not exactly in the same league as bombing a parade or dropping a scout troop off the Brooklyn Bridge, is it? Maybe he's reformed." She shrugged.

Peter shook his head in frustration. It was easy for MJ to be cavalier; she hadn't heard the Goblin threaten to kill her slowly and painfully. Peter had to remind himself that it was Norman Osborn who made that threat. He just couldn't get used to the idea that gentle–even wimpy–Harry could have turned such a corner. In high school, Harry talked or bought his way out of bad situations. He let insults roll off his back. Nothing seemed to phase him. That he would now turn to violence seemed impossible. But it was the only logical possibility, and Spider-Man couldn't afford to ignore it. He hated being put in this position, but he was the only one who could stop the Goblin….

"Harry's back," said Mary Jane.

"What do you mean by that?" Peter snapped.

"Peter, what is your problem! That was Aunt May on the phone. She says Harry's back from rehab. Yeesh!"

Peter realized he had been so wrapped up in his brooding that he hadn't even heard the phone ring. Some hero. "I'm sorry," he repeated, wondering if it would be enough.

"Don't apologize, just stop biting my head off."

Not enough. But he must have looked contrite, because MJ relaxed a little. She said, "Not to add to your troubles or anything, but there was one more thing. He's getting married in _a week_."

"So? That's good, isn't it?"

"Getting married a month after being dumped is bad. Getting married in a week, that's suspicious. The only reason they aren't married already is because of Aunt May." She laid her head on Peter's shoulder, the way she did when she wanted something. "Can't you talk to him?"

"If you really want me to…but there's no guarantee he'll listen."

Mary Jane responded with a toe-curling kiss.

_At least I get to be a hero for doing something I had to do anyway_.

It was a quick swing from Mary Jane's Greenwich Village apartment to Harry's Tudor City digs, so Peter didn't have much time to rehearse. He was totally unprepared when The Fiancée herself opened the door, not that he had a second to get a word in anyway.

"You must…" he began.

"You must be Peter. Harry doesn't want to see you. Get out."

Peter stuck his foot in the heavy door. It would have crunched harder had Harry been behind it, but this tiny girl wasn't much of a threat. Still, Peter didn't want to bully his way in. "If you don't mind, I'd like to hear that from Harry," he told her, as kindly as he could manage.

The girl's pale eyes flashed. "We have a lot of work to do, and I don't want any distractions."

Peter gritted his teeth. "I'm not leaving till I see Harry."

At that moment, Harry wandered out into the hallway, cell phone glued to his ear. "Well, how many arrangements can you get? All right, I'll take them all. Have them ready." He snapped the phone shut and licked his lips. "Kitten? What's up?"

"Oh, baby, I didn't want to bother you with this," Felicia purred. Sure, _now_ she was Little Mary Sunshine.

"Five minutes," said Peter. "For old time's sake."

Harry shrugged.

"You have a lot of work to do, dearest, let me take care of him," Felicia said.

"I'm just calling florists. We'll probably need two more to fill the cathedral on short notice. Peter and I can go in the study."

"Are you sure it won't upset you?" Felicia persisted, the sticky sweetness in her voice now tinged with annoyance.

"Well, maybe it would be better…."

Before Harry could finish his sentence, Peter grabbed him and pulled him into the entry hall. "Yeah, it would be better out here," he said, slamming the door in Felicia's face. He expected Harry to be angry, but his former friend just looked dazed.

Harry licked his lips again.

"What's going on?" Peter asked, trying to sound as benign as possible.

"With what?"

"The Green Goblin. I want to help you."

"Help me do what? Everything's going fine."

So much for subtlety. "Is it you?"

In a single rush of breath, Harry spat, "I was in rehab, just like I said. Ask anyone. There are dozens of witnesses. How could you think I would be involved in something like that? I'm not crazy. Why don't you just get out of my life anyway?" Then he twitched a little, licked his lips, and went inside, slamming the deadbolt home behind him.

"That clinic was money well spent," Peter cracked. He thought for a moment. "Very well spent, if it's his alibi…."

When Harry returned to the cloister of his townhouse, Felicia was waiting for him.

"I was afraid this would happen," she pouted. "Are you all right, hon?"

Harry didn't answer, but pulled out his handkerchief to dab his suddenly moist forehead.

"I know what'll cheer you up," Felicia smiled. She trotted to the kitchen and cut a slice from the cake she had baked that morning. "German chocolate. Tell me what you think."

"Is there time for a cake?" Harry asked, taking a bite.

"There will be if I bake it," she answered, still smiling. "Of course, we can always pick up a sheet cake from the supermarket if you don't like my cooking."

"I love it," said Harry. "I love you." He leaned over for a kiss, but she dodged adroitly.

"Then eat up," she said, tapping him on the chin.

He obeyed dutifully, although secretly he didn't have much of a taste for anything. Ten minutes later, however, he was back on top of the world. He could barely remember what it felt like to be troubled, much less what might have caused such a thing.

"See what happens when you listen to me?" Felicia purred. "Keep making calls; I'm going to run out and do a little shopping."

But that wasn't her first errand. She walked down the street and picked up some take out, then hailed a cab and directed the driver to Brooklyn. She walked up three flights in a shoddy tenement in a bad neighborhood and unlocked a door. Inside two blonde girls were tied back-to-back on the floor.

"Don't worry, dears, in three days all your suffering will be over," she told them, as she loosened the ropes binding one hand for each of them.

"Die," growled the girl with shorter hair.

Felicia smiled. "That's your job. Now dig in, because this is all you've got for a while. I can't keep going on these little jaunts or Osborn's brain might engage. Unlikely, but I really can't leave it to chance."

"Leave Harry alone," the long-haired girl pleaded. "He hasn't done anything to you."

"'Prepare a place to slaughter his sons for the sins of their fathers; they are not to rise to inherit the land and cover the earth with their cities.'" Felicia shrugged. "Who am I to argue with the word of God?"

"This isn't about God," the long-haired girl said quietly. "That much is obvious."

"It's about justice," Felicia hissed. "When I realized who you were, I knew it was a sign. I could break Osborn, put him where I wanted him, and have a police captain in my pocket, all for one more little kidnapping. It was so perfect, it had to be preordained."

The short-haired girl rolled her eyes. "What _did _you do to Osborn to convince him you aren't a screaming lunatic?"

Felicia smiled again, showing her teeth, or rather the expensive falsies that capped her real set. She slapped the other girl hard across the face. "That should be answer enough, but I'm going to tell you anyway–someone ought to know how I outsmarted the scions of two of the wealthiest families in New York." She swept her hair back in place. "Methamphetamines. In his food. Makes him feel like several million bucks. I mix it with a little anti-psychotic in the morning and a sleeping pill at night and _voila–_no suspicious side effects."

"For now," said the long-haired girl. "I've seen meth addicts after a few months of tweaking."

"No problem. He isn't going to live that long. He's going to have a very long fall off the wagon…I'd say about twenty-three stories. Then I'll take out the two of you. Too bad Norman Osborn's already dead, because I had _big_ plans for him."

"What about my father?" asked the long-haired girl.

"Not guilty on all counts. As long as he keeps his promise not to investigate, he'll be fine. You're just collateral damage, princess. Sorry. Mm, it feels good to share, doesn't it?"

Felicia phoned for a cab and informed them they had until it arrived to finish eating. Not bothering to take the empty food containers with her, Felicia left, locking the door behind her. If anyone had looked closely, they might have noticed that it wasn't exactly like the other doors on the floor. It hugged the floor, keeping stray sounds out–and, more importantly, in.

She ordered the cabbie to take her to Saks, where she carelessly picked out a couple pairs of shoes. What she got wasn't so important as the bare fact that she had bought something. The illusion, she had decided long ago, had to be perfect.


	9. The Goblin

**Chapter 9: The Goblin**

A quick visit to the rehab clinic cleared up absolutely nothing. Peter didn't have time for diplomacy or undercover work, so he went in the Spidey suit and scared a shrink into talking. However, all he learned was that it wasn't terribly difficult for any patient to come or go without being caught on tape. That left Harry a definite maybe for the man in the green mask.

When he got back to Mary Jane's, she was having tea with Aunt May.

"How'd it go?" MJ asked anxiously.

"Lousy." Peter turned to snag one of Aunt May's famous tea cakes.

"Oh dear," Aunt May sighed. "Did you see…_her_?" The hostility was so palpable in her voice that Peter turned around and looked at her. "Can you believe that creature wants to cheat Harry out of a real wedding? She said she'd rather have a five minute ceremony at city hall! It makes you wonder what's _really_ on her mind, doesn't it? Well, you only get married once. Of course he wouldn't stand for it."

"I think you helped him a little with that one," said MJ, stifling a giggle. "Anyway, she's an heiress. She probably has more money than he does."

"Nevertheless," May sniffed.

The phone rang and MJ picked it up.

"What else do you know about that girl?" Peter asked his aunt, but she didn't have a chance to sink her claws in before MJ hung up the phone.

"It was for you," she said. "It was your informant. He says there's going to be another one tonight."

"Oh! Okay, I better get going. Bye." He kissed both women, grabbed his camera, and headed out, leaving Aunt May tsking at his manners.

The grave robbers were driving a different van this time, but it was the same six mooks. Because there was no hiding place near the burial site, Spider-Man watched from a nearby building. He let the van go for about a block, until it was nearly out of sight, and he was glad he waited; the van stopped and one man jumped out to examine the van's roof before they went on. Spider-Man followed at a safe distance, trying to keep to the shadows, knowing it would cause a commotion if even a random citizen spotted him.

He followed them to an empty warehouse on Long Island. They checked for him again, but again his caution paid off. He just slipped in as the doors closed behind the van, and he found it easy to hide in the dark rafters. There were stacks of wooden crates lining the walls, but in most places they were stacked high, not deep–the better to cover the windows. He recognized some of them as similar to the ones he'd seen coming into the city at night so mysteriously.

The van stopped in the middle of the mostly empty warehouse and waited. Spider-Man snapped a couple of pictures, although he knew they wouldn't turn out well in the dim, artificial light. He was just focusing a bird's eye shot of the van when he noticed the seams in the floor. _Aha, so that's their scam,_ he thought, and sure enough, within a couple minutes, the floor opened up and swallowed the van.

Spider-Man could already see light, so he knew it wasn't very far underground. He let a web line down to ground level and crawled down the shaft. Poking his head out of the vertical corridor, Spider-Man saw a dimly lit hallway leading to a nondescript door. Two of the six robbers unloaded the stolen corpse onto a stretcher. As a man in scrubs wheeled the body away, the two got back into the van.

Nothing happened.

_Hmm, this might get tricky_. Spider-Man couldn't just follow the stretcher, because the guys in the van would almost certainly see him. But he couldn't stay where he was, because then he would either go back up with the van like a miserable failure (in the best case) or get squashed like a bug (in the worst case).

He crossed his fingers and let go of the wall, dropping silently to the platform on which the van sat. Nothing happened, so he thanked his lucky stars and slunk under the van until he was just below the front bumper. From there, it was only a few feet from the edge of the platform. The doctor and stretcher had disappeared. Only a few seconds after Spider-Man had positioned himself, the platform started to rise. He squirmed out from under the van, reached over the edge, and stuck his hands to the bottom of the platform. A quick somersault and a short drop later, and he was in the hallway with nobody the wiser. Still, he had always found stealth to be a wise choice, so he crept along silently and gently nudged open the unassuming door.

The beat-up door at the end of the dingy hallway in the basement of a filthy warehouse led into a clean, bright, and very high-tech laboratory. The walls were lined with sparkling steel countertops, leaving the center of the room open for modular units to be shuffled around as needed. There seemed to be two types of unit, mortuary-style slabs and _Star Trek-_looking cylindrical tubes. He'd been right about one thing: those tubes really were big enough to put a person in. Every one held a body suspended in solution.

The room was flooded with bright fluorescent light, which was good for the camera but bad for Spider-Man. There was absolutely nowhere for a guy in red-and-blue pajamas to hide, not that he was terribly concerned. Unless this facility also housed biological weapons or something, the worst that could happen would be that whoever was running this show would destroy it before the police had a chance to collect any evidence. He stood up and started snapping, trying to get not only the facility, but the faces, so that they could be identified.

There were three doors leading out of this room, two of which looked a lot newer and sturdier than the one he had come in through. He decided to start with the one on the right, which was thick and heavy and sealed tightly to the frame.

No wonder it looked so secure–it had to be soundproof to conceal the racket on the other side. A klaxon wailed and emergency lights flashed red, illuminating a small laboratory with a largish picture window that Spider-Man supposed was a one-way mirror. On the other side, the Green Goblin was holding a lab-coated man by his throat with one hand and slamming a second man against the wall with the other.

Spider-Man sized up the situation in an instant. In the next instant, he was at the door that separated the two rooms.

A body flew through the window, sending shattered glass everywhere. He was in bad shape, but breathing.

The Green Goblin's bone-chilling cackle mingled with the emergency siren. Howling above the din, he called, "That sniveling coward Osborn wants me dead and you maggots line up to play executioner, is that it? I reward loyalty, but betrayal–"

He kicked open the dividing door, but he didn't have a chance to elaborate on his hurt feelings; he was too busy taking a sucker punch to the jaw.

With the Goblin temporarily stunned, Spider-Man tried, "Harry, you have to stop this. These guys will be okay. I can help you if you just trust me–!"

The Goblin shrieked with laughter. "You're loonier than a Canadian dollar!" His wisecracks were terrible, but his speed and strength were uncanny as ever. In a flash, he was pummeling Spider-Man, who was out of his element in the cramped lab.

_Not good_, Spider-Man thought. He retreated back to the larger lab and whipped open the third door. It turned out to be another corridor, but it was lined with what looked like the kind of drawers you find in a morgue. The air was cold and stale. Spider-Man could just make out a door at the other end.

He fled down the length of the room, but the Goblin lobbed a smoke bomb ahead of him. He made a flying leap for the door and just made it through before the gas could release fully.

He found himself in yet another hallway, this one lined with doors. The low ceiling and narrow corridor registered themselves in his mind as an uncomfortable claustrophobic feeling. He didn't have much time to reflect, with the Goblin close behind him and quickly closing the gap with more bombs and those damnable razor bats.

Operating on instinct and adrenaline, Spider-Man hurtled past dozens of identical doors, each with a small barred window that only made him feel more like a rat in a cage. In open air, his agility and webbing gave him an edge, but the Goblin was a match in strength and speed, and his little gizmos worked much better at close range, where Spider-Man couldn't get away easily.

New door. Spider-Man nearly tore it off the hinges. It led to a short stairwell, only two flights. Through the door at the top was a second warehouse. This one was actually filled with wares, but there was still plenty of room to maneuver–and hide.

From a spot in the rafters above the door he had just come through, Spider-Man waited. And waited. _Just like that lunatic to be late to his own ambush_, he thought testily. _Wait, what am I saying? It's Harry under there, and I don't want to hurt him if I can help it. If he's injured or if he came to his senses back there, maybe I can gain his trust again._

He was just about to go back when the Goblin appeared–on his glider, through a window. Taken by surprise, Spider-Man swung out of the shadows to attack and was himself rushed by a swarm of razor bats. One of them sliced through his web line. As he fell, he saw the floor beneath him explode in fire and noxious gas.

A desperate web line soared upwards and snagged a rafter, pulling Spider-Man out of range of the explosions and the glider. Glancing back, Spider-Man caught a glimpse of orange and realized that the glider was feeding the Goblin more bombs. The air around Spider-Man turned to smoke, but by then, he was already gone.

The Goblin switched tactics, opting to use the glider as a battering ram. Granted the thing was jet-propelled, it was still slower than the bombs. Spider-Man led the Goblin on a chase around the warehouse, calling to Harry, trying to talk him down before one of them ended up dead. No more bombs were forthcoming; Spider-Man figured he must be out. With all the complicated circuitry and whatnot in the glider, it was a wonder the thing had any storage at all.

The Goblin blasted his way out through another window. Now it was Spider-Man's turn to play catch up. There was no telling what havoc the Goblin might cause loose in the city.

For the moment, though, he seemed intent on getting away. _Maybe I rattled him and he's going home_, Spider-Man hoped, but that thought was quickly followed by a gloomier one: _Or maybe he's going to get more bombs. Peachy._

At a run-down apartment building, Spider-Man lost track of the Goblin for a minute before realizing he had gotten off the glider and run right in the front door. Great, more small spaces. Following the Goblin's deranged cackle, he noticed eyes peeking out through mostly-closed doors.

"Hey, there are people here!" Spider-Man called, although he felt that trying to appeal to a madman's sense of social responsibility was probably futile.

"Tell me about it," the Goblin replied conversationally.

Spider-Man turned toward the sound and saw a door opening into a one-room apartment. Inside, the Goblin had yanked a pull-down bed right off the wall, revealing another room behind it. He himself was busily scooping bombs into a sack, unmindful of the two struggling girls tied up back-to-back on the floor in front of him.

"Seems someone's been using my hideout for nefarious purposes," the Goblin said, sounding slightly miffed, as if he'd been served Diet Coke instead of regular.

"Yeah, you," Spider-Man retorted, trying to cover his dismay at how far gone his friend seemed.

"These aren't mine. Stealing Harry's cupcakes is _so_ two years ago," the Goblin scoffed. "Then again…why not include them in all the fun?" He rolled a bomb across the floor at the helpless girls.

Spider-Man had a kind of tunnel vision when it came to people in jeopardy. Even though he knew the Goblin could kill or injure dozens of people if allowed to run amok, it was as though everything went black except the two girls and the bomb that was about to kill them. Lacking time for anything else, he webbed the thing and hurled it into the next room, where it burst into green light with no sound other than a peculiar death rattle. Spider-Man remembered this type of bomb; he had seen it vaporize three people at the World Unity Festival two years earlier. Fortunately, it seemed not to have a very large blast radius.

Threat neutralized, Spider-Man ran to the window, but all he could see was a rapidly dissolving exhaust trail. He turned to untie the girls, and his heart leaped right up through his throat, slammed into his brain, and plunged back down into his stomach.

It was Gwen Stacy and Felicia Hardy.

_So this is what he meant by Harry's cupcakes_, he thought, while his hands operated under their own orders to work at the knots. _The Goblin referred to Harry as Harry, but does that really mean anything? Norman Osborn also referred to the Green Goblin as a separate entity, like another person that took over his body sometimes. Maybe it was just how he dealt with the guilt. Or maybe it really is someone else. Harry couldn't do this…could he?_

Gwen looked scared, but he couldn't tell whether it was because she had just been through a major trauma or because Harry had taught her to fear Spider-Man. Maybe both. She was shaking so hard he had some trouble with the knots.

Felicia kept still and watched him closely. He watched her, too, feeling a strange, déjà vu-like sensation. Peter had had the same feeling looking at Norman Osborn and Otto Octavius unmasked…but Felicia was no villain. There was something wrong here, but nothing immediately obvious. Spider-Man had more pressing concerns than butterflies in the stomach, namely bringing the body snatchers to justice and hopefully catching up with good old Gobby.

"If we can get to a police station, they can find my dad. He's a cop," Gwen was telling Felicia.

_A cop who now owes me a favor…assuming he doesn't blame me for the kidnapping,_ thought Spider-Man. "A cop, huh? You think you could arrange a meeting?"


	10. Hell in a Handbasket

**Chapter 10: Hell in a Handbasket**

The next day, Harry admired himself in the full-length mirror. _Very dapper, Osborn. Very, very slick._ Yet, he had yanked on a handful of strings to get this cathedral, and he had no guests to fill the seats. Even Aunt May, who had pushed them to have a real ceremony, hadn't bothered to show up. The guest list consisted of Lydia Hardy and a handful of friends he and Felicia had made in rehab. Harry would have been depressed if he weren't so elated.

The ceremony began without much ado–there was nobody to cause any–and before he knew it, Felicia had joined him at the altar. Beau was right; this was as close to total peace as he had ever been. A small and unwelcome part of Harry's mind nagged at him that there was no way it could all be true. He ignored it, reflecting that he should have started ignoring it a long time ago.

And then Captain Stacy strode in flanked by two uniformed cops. He had a blonde girl with him; Harry assumed it was Gwen, but when he looked closer, he saw that it was Felicia.

_I thought I was done with these hallucinations_, Harry thought, more annoyed than anything. But when he looked back at his would-be bride, she was looking frantically at the cops that were now blocking every exit.

Just as Harry was about to demand some answers, the second Felicia reached the altar.

"You stole my face," she said to Harry's bride. "I want it back."

Before anyone could react, the new Felicia carved a chunk out of the other's face with her nails. Harry jumped between them, earning himself a scratch too. The police weren't far behind; two of the uniformed officers grabbed and handcuffed each struggling girl.

"Not good, Miss Hardy," Captain Stacy scolded the interloper Felicia. "I hope you enjoyed yourself, because it'll cost you at trial."

"It was worth it," she hissed, glaring at the other Felicia.

The Captain seemed annoyed and perhaps disappointed, but not very surprised. "Harry, Mrs. Hardy, I'd like the two of you to come to the station with me. It will be easier to explain everything there. It's a long story, I'm afraid."

"You see this too?" Harry asked his future (former?) mother-in-law.

Lydia nodded numbly. Voice shaking, she said, "I wouldn't rule out the possibility that we are having the same nightmare, though."

Captain Stacy ushered them in to his office at One Police Plaza. He had a large tank full of fish that attracted Harry's attention immediately. Harry and Lydia sat on a leather couch, while the captain pulled up a chair.

"This won't be easy, so I'll be direct. We believe that your fiancée, Harry, and the girl who has been living with you, Mrs. Hardy, for the past two months, is not Felicia Hardy."

Lydia tensed. "You believe? And just what is that supposed to mean? What you're saying–well, it's just preposterous!"

"As you saw, the two girls are identical. We are ninety-nine percent certain which girl is the real Felicia, but of course, we'd prefer to be a hundred–"

"What do you need?" Lydia interrupted.

"A DNA sample from both girls, and from you or another family member–" the captain began, but Lydia didn't need any more prompting.

"Consider it done. The sooner this insanity is over with, the better."

"But why?" Harry said blankly. "Why me? Why her? What's the point?"

Captain Stacy kept his tone even and low. "We aren't entirely sure. So far, the impersonator won't tell us anything, including her real name. Harry, do you remember the letter you got from Gwen several weeks ago?"

Harry nodded. It was hard to forget.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you at the time, but she wrote that letter under duress. Sometime between going out with you and coming home, she was taken. When you came to see me the next morning, the kidnapper had already contacted me…" The captain sighed, and just for a second, his expression betrayed his frustration. "Why don't we call her Jane Doe for now? Ms. Doe wanted you in a rehabilitation facility, and if you hadn't gotten that idea on your own, I was supposed to convince you. I hope you'll understand when I say I chose the lesser of two evils. I had to buy more time to investigate."

Lydia Hardy, who had been frowning intently, chimed in, "And then she told me she thought she needed treatment, just four weeks ago. She wanted to isolate him."

"That's right, very good, Ms. Hardy. Clearly, Ms. Doe wanted both Harry and herself out of sight of anyone they knew. I believe she needed the time to convince you to marry her, Harry. She knew friends or relatives would ask inconvenient questions. Getting rid of Gwendolyn served her two ways: it eliminated her as a romantic rival and it left you vulnerable.

"Most people fall hard on the rebound, of course, but you were never supposed to get over it. Kidnapping Gwen, manipulating you, impersonating Felicia–she's much too smart to think she could get away with any of that for very long. Her plan must have been short-term. Although I can't be sure until we have more evidence, I think she intended to kill you after your wedding."

Harry frowned at the fish tank. "She could have made me drink some booze, and then pushed me off the balcony, and called it an accident," he said, the mental image flashing bright and vivid as he described it. "And I would have done it, if she said to." As an afterthought, he added, "That's really stupid, isn't it?"

"No, Harry, it isn't. She put you in a suggestible state, like brainwashing. I wouldn't be surprised if she used some kind of drug to further weaken your defenses."

Lydia set her hand on Harry's free one. "Do you remember that breakfast?" she asked, looking as stunned as he felt. "Felicia–well, whatever her name is–she said you looked terrible that morning, and you did. But after the meal, you were quite charming. Just a bit jumpy."

Harry just stared, seeing her point but not wanting to admit it.

"And whats-her-name, she was gone for a rather long time just before the food arrived," Lydia continued. "Good lord, she could have done anything to either of us!"

Captain Stacy said, "Whatever she was up to, it was almost certainly personal. But it was also planned to the smallest detail. She wouldn't have harmed either of you until the time was just right. Fortunately, Spider-Man happened to find Felicia and Gwendolyn in time."

"Spider-Man," Harry mumbled. That word always commanded his attention. But he found that he had no hate for Spider-Man at the moment, nor even for Ms. Whats-Her-Name who plotted to kill him. He was numb, just numb. He agreed to let the police lab take a blood sample, and barely even felt the jab in his arm. It was as though his nerves had resigned in protest.

When they were finished taking the sample, Harry went back to the captain's office. It wasn't so much that he wanted to see the captain as he didn't want to go home to an empty house. He sat down and stared at the fish tank, letting his mind go blank.

He didn't know how long he had been watching the fish when Gwen appeared. He hadn't noticed the door opening.

"Harry, oh my God," she was saying, "are you all right?"

"Fine," he lied. He could tell she wasn't convinced.

She reached out to touch him, and he drew back.

Surprised, she asked, "Did daddy tell you about the letter?"

He nodded.

"Are you still mad at me?"

He shook his head.

Her shoulders slumped. "You should know, I didn't have a choice. They had a gun to my head."

"I understand." Harry took another look at Gwen. She looked worried, her usual serenity rubbed raw. It hurt him to see her that way, more so because he felt responsible. "I'm sorry, Gwen. So sorry."

Her expression smoothed out to neutral. She considered him for a moment. "You wanna meet the boys?"

"I'm not really up for that right now–"

She smiled at that, and almost all of the old pixie dust was back. "I mean them." She pointed at the fish tank. "I notice you can't keep your eyes off them."

He fidgeted. He had forgotten how observant she was.

Gwen got up and moved over to the tank. "This is Frankie. That one is Dean. This is Bogie. The black one is Sammy. The one with the red patch is Shirley. And that one at the bottom is Fluffy."

Harry furrowed his brow.

"Fluffy's mine." Gwen smiled affectionately at the little orange fish, which was snuffling up the colored pebbles that lined the floor of the aquarium.

"Why would you call a fish Fluffy?"

"Because I don't believe in fate."

"I don't get it."

She might as well have been speaking Klingon for all the sense she was making. She looked disappointed, but there was nothing he could do about it. "I'm going home," he said abruptly.

"Do you want any company?" she asked.

Harry shook his head and left her standing there. He felt bad about it, but he thought he could make it up to her. On his way out of the station house, he called up his lawyer to set up a meeting. Tomorrow, Gwen Stacy would be the brand-new majority shareholder of OsCorp.

Meanwhile, the soon-to-be heiress was looking for her father. She found him standing outside a holding cell, watching a detective interrogate the girl who was not Felicia Hardy.

"How's it going?" she asked, though she could guess from the girl's silence and the cop's expression that it wasn't going well.

George Stacy sighed. "We've got enough evidence for an indictment, but I don't know about a conviction. Juries don't like to hear that there was no motive."

"Motive? Wasn't she after his money?"

Captain Stacy turned to look at his daughter. "Do you believe that?"

Gwen shook her head. "No," she admitted. "Back in that apartment, Felicia asked her a question just to get on her nerves. But she answered it. That's when she told us about how she fed Harry drugs. She must have really wanted to talk."

George nodded. "I think she still does. You have good instincts, Peaches. I'd like to get Harry in here to talk to her soon, maybe tomorrow. If this was a personal vendetta, he's our best bet."

Back at home after meeting with his lawyer and making the necessary changes to his will, Harry felt better. More settled somehow. He had thought things through, and he was sure he was doing the right thing. Not only would he solve his own problems, he could help out the people he loved at the same time. Peter and Aunt May would never have to worry about money again. No more crummy diners for MJ. Gwendy would get to do anything she wanted at OsCorp–knowing her, a little of everything. Bernard could retire. It was a win-win scenario.

Harry took the handgun out of its drawer in the study and raised it to his temple. _Cheers_, he thought.

_Bam!_

The gun flew out of Harry's hand and skittered across the floor. For a second, Harry didn't understand, didn't know whether he was dead or alive. Then he saw his father, and he was _really_ confused.

"Dammit, Harry, do I have to babysit you every minute of the day?" Norman snapped.

_This will all be over soon_, Harry reassured himself, moving to retrieve the gun. "Everything will be better this way," he murmured aloud. "Gwen will take care of OsCorp. Don't worry."

"The cop's girl? I don't think so." Norman grabbed Harry by the wrist and yanked him toward the balcony door.

"You're hurting me," Harry said.

"You're annoying me," Norman retorted coolly.

The glider was waiting on the balcony. Norman pulled Harry onto it.

"Where are we going?" Harry demanded, struggling against his father's iron grip.

"What's it to you? You were just going to kill yourself, weren't you?"

Harry didn't answer.

"You're coming with me. I need you alive."

* * *

"Oh my God." Mary Jane Watson sat at a computer in the public library, frozen. With stiff fingers, she hit the print screen button. Gathering the papers, she rushed out to call Peter. She could only hope he was at her place–otherwise, she didn't know how she could get to him in time. She plugged the phone, dialed…no dice. On the spur of the moment, she left a message on her own machine. Then she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of Beau Hollingsworth's estate. It was probably a stupid move, but Mary Jane Watson had never been much one for reflection. Her only worry was that she wouldn't make it in time.

* * *

May Parker was unusually quiet during dinner. As far as she knew, Harry's wedding was still a couple days away, and Peter was doing fine. She wasn't worried about them, or at least not any more than usual. She was worried about herself. Beau had been very open about his ex-wives, but try as she might to tell herself that the past was past, she couldn't get over the feeling that he intended to make her wife number six.

Every time a waiter appeared, she expected a ring to come with him. Yet, there was nothing all the way through dinner, dessert, and coffee. After a couple of turns on the dance floor, May was starting to hope he'd hurry up and pop the question so she could refuse and get on with her life.

Finally, he invited her back to his mansion. May wasn't keen on that at all, but she agreed against her better judgement. They strolled through his French-style garden, May trying not to let the heavy perfume of honeysuckle and dogwood cloud her mind.

When they reached the center, Beau had champagne ready on ice. A mite presumptuous, thought May. They sat.

"May, I must say that being with you these last few weeks has been a singular pleasure. When you're with me, I can't help but dream that time would just stop. That we had a whole lifetime to share together."

He reached into an inside pocket in his jacket. May was all set to protest, but then he withdrew a flask. She fell silent. What on earth was this about?

"I've felt the hand of time heavy on my shoulder, May. Old age is but the cruelest joke of an otherwise unfeeling god. I swore long ago that I would have the last laugh–and so I will."

"I don't understand," May frowned. "Is it poison?"

Beau laughed. "Quite the opposite. It's the fountain of youth."

* * *

Peter entered Mary Jane's apartment using his key, humming a little ditty he called "I've Got a Key." He called to her, but she wasn't there. In the dark, he could see the light on the answering machine blinking. He hit the button.

"Oh my God, Peter," came Mary Jane's breathless voice, "It's him–Beau Hollingsworth. He owns Multivex. He's the one who's been shipping in all that medical equipment. He's the owner of that property where you found all the bodies. He's out with Aunt May tonight. There's no time, I'm going to go."

The recording ended.

Panic playing xylophone on his spine, Peter pulled off his street clothes and tore out of the apartment.

Mary Jane stared in despair at the enormous estate. How would she find Beau and Aunt May in this place? They could be anywhere…unless. Unless Beau was still playing Casanova. If so, he would take her to the most romantic place he owned. Mary Jane skirted the house and entered the enormous garden in the back.

The plants were tall. The garden looked wild and overgrown, but artfully so–as if someone had spent a lot of time to look like they hadn't spent a lot of time. Mary Jane knew that look well, but she didn't dwell on it. She had to find Aunt May.

Fortunately, she was getting close enough that she could hear Beau's rolling bass. She followed the sound and found the two of them in an atrium-like clearing. He was explaining how the flask he was holding could turn back the clock on aging, maybe permanently.

"Oh yeah?" Mary Jane said, stepping out dramatically. "Why don't you tell her how you found the fountain of youth, huh?" She was trying to sound confident, playing a role; she was secretly petrified.

But Beau just blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about, young lady."

"You _stole corpses_ to experiment on. What, there weren't enough to go around or something?"

"No, there are not. Especially fresh ones. It's a perennial problem in the medical field," Beau said calmly. His eyes flashed. "As a matter of fact, it was my partner who wanted the cold bodies. You probably didn't find anything at the library tying me to a sudden exodus of homeless and other undesirables, however."

"Beau, what are you saying?" May gasped.

"Yeah, what?" Mary Jane echoed, confused.

"I have in my hand the power to stop time. To _cheat death_. Now, isn't that worth skimming the slime off the gene pool?"

"You experimented on _living people?_"

"Think about it, young lady. With all the time you, Peter and Harry spent looking through newspapers, searching for clues, you never even thought about the reports of whores and drunks going missing. Did you? Of course not. You don't care because they don't matter."

Seeing the appalled looks on their faces, he sighed. "I was afraid it would come to this." He turned sadly to May. "You're just like the rest of them. No vision at all."

On cue, two large men moved out from hidden positions and grabbed May and MJ. MJ struggled, but she was no match for the muscled thug who held her.

"What are you going to do to us?" she cried.

"I'm going to give you both a gift, my dears. You'll be the first witnesses to my genius." His eyes turned cold and hard. "Then you'll die, knowing it could have been yours."

* * *

Across town, Harry was also facing death, though of a different nature. His father had apparently brought him here. Then again, he'd had that dream before.

"You're taking this better than I thought you would," Norman commented. He cocked his head to one side like some weird species of bird. "You think it's another hallucination, right?"

"That's the logical conclusion, _right?_"

"Think whatever you want. All I need out of you is a steady heartbeat."

"Why?" Harry scoffed. "You never did before."

"You wanna know?" Norman smiled, all teeth. "I don't think you do."

"Try me."

"Because you're my heir, of course. As long as you're alive and kicking–or alive, at any rate–I have access to all my properties." He snorted. "I knew I could count on you not to get rid of a damn thing that belonged to me. Pathetic, but useful."

Stung, Harry fired back, "What do you even need it for? Did you figure out how to take it with you?"

Norman smiled wider than Harry had even seen him smile. "Sure did."

"What about the money?"

"The money you've been spending like it was going out of style, that money? Don't need it. I had my representative enter a business partnership on my behalf while I was…incapacitated. I believe you know Beau Hollingsworth. I provided the space, and he provided the cash flow. We shared data. Our goals weren't so far apart."

He stripped off the Goblin armor and the black shirt he was wearing underneath, exposing his chest. His lower abdomen was a hideous mass of twisted flesh, one huge, roiling scar. "One of the twin fruits of our labor. Code-named Lazarus. Cures any kind of injury, dismemberment, and death."

"That's disgusting," Harry told him, staring at the scar.

"It's not perfect. The success rate isn't as high as I could hope, and the corpses have to be fresh like sushi. I had mine frozen, see. Anyway, that's why I need to do more testing before I put it on the market. No one can find out about these labs I've set up here until I'm ready for the grand unveiling."

Harry stared at his father. "Market? Are you nuts? Do you know what a thing like that would do to people?"

"Of course! It would make them climb all over each other to give me anything I want, that's what." Norman threw back his head and laughed hysterically.

"You're sick," Harry protested over the laughter. "If you're my future, then no thanks, I'd rather be dead–"

"Uh oh."

Against his better judgement, Harry asked, "What?"

"Gate crasher."

Norman moved over to the door quickly, unbelievably fast. In one motion, he reached the door and yanked it open, scooping up Gwen Stacy as she fell forward.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Gwen mumbled, staring at Norman. "It really _is_ you."

For the first time since Norman's death, Harry saw his father and believed absolutely that it really was him. "Dad?" he whispered.

"It ain't Johnny Carson," the Green Goblin answered wryly.

* * *

Spider-Man swung over the vast Hollingsworth estate, hoping he could spot Beau and Aunt May outside. If not, he would have to search the palatial mansion…but no, there they were. Aunt May and MJ were being held by two beefy thugs, but that was good–it meant they were okay for now.

Taking careful aim, Spider-Man concentrated his webbing into two baseball-sized lumps and pitched them at the thugs. Bullseye! He got both men right in the melon, knocking them out cold.

As Spider-Man dropped to the ground, some guy laughed. The women seemed riveted by him. "You're too late," he drawled. "Once people see what my youth formula does, they won't care how I made it."

"Youth formula…?" And all at once, Peter saw it. The blue eyes were clearer, the hair thick and blonde, but this guy was definitely Beau Hollingsworth. He looked forty years younger and at least an inch taller.

He threw a punch that Spider-Man just barely dodged–apparently, he wasn't just younger, but _better_. They danced around for a bit, neither really gaining ground on the other. Then Spider-Man got cocky and Beau landed a hit.

At first, Spider-Man was confused. Could he be pulling his punches? "Come on, that was a love tap," he taunted. He almost wanted Beau to hit him again, just out of curiosity's sake. But Beau seemed to be slowing down and could not land another.

"No," Beau grunted. "This is impossible." As they watched, tumors erupted underneath his skin. His muscles twisted and writhed. He was being eaten from the inside.

Spider-Man hurried Mary Jane and Aunt May away from the gruesome scene, but he returned in time to hear Beau Hollingsworth's last words: "The formula was perfect. We tested everything!"

The Goblin lifted Gwen clean off her feet and carried her to a window.

"Dad, no!" Harry cried.

"She has to go. She knows too much. Man up, will you?"

He was right, Harry realized. This was going to take courage. He picked up the nearest lethal object he saw, a large surgical knife…and held it to his own throat. "If she dies, I die–and then your precious property goes to fifty different charities in three states."

It was a Hail Mary play, but the Goblin apparently wasn't willing to gamble on losing control of his property. He hissed like a snake and dropped Gwen.

"All right, forget the girl. She won't matter anyway once you hear what I have to say. Once-in-a-lifetime offer here. I have a special formula, one that will make you an even match against Spider-Man. Makes you smart, makes you strong, what a deal. All you have to do is handle the bug while I'm doing my work."

Harry looked over at the chemicals racked on the wall. He recognized the Goblin formula from his research. "What, that one? The one that turned you into a homicidal maniac?" He shook his head. "Never."

"I was the one who was murdered–by Spider-Man! Don't you want revenge? Weren't you going to take his life as he took mine?"

Harry wavered. The corners of the Goblin's mouth pulled back a little, revealing more teeth.

"Don't you want to _make me proud?_"

"Wait a minute," said Gwen Stacy. "How could Spider-Man control that thing?" She pointed at the Goblin's glider.

"Shut up," said the Goblin.

"That's the murder weapon, it has to be. The police never found it–"

The Goblin flew at her, screaming. Harry had only a split second to act. He jumped between Gwen and the Goblin and drove the knife into the madman's neck. The Goblin tried to speak, but all that came out was thick black blood. He fell to the floor.

Harry dropped to his knees beside the corpse, dazed.

Gwen kneeled next to Harry. "My father worked the Norman Osborn case. I saw the autopsy photos. I'm sure about the weapon."

"I know. He was going to kill you. I couldn't let that happen."

They sat there for a moment. Suddenly, Gwen shook Harry's shoulder. "Harry, look! His wound–is it healing?"

"The Lazarus formula. We have to destroy the body."

Harry scanned the room for the means to start a fire. Gwen looked at the chemicals.

"Harry, I think this will work. Start with this one, then add this bottle here, and the body should dissolve."

Gwen held his hand as he moved to take the bottles.

"Wait–are you sure? He's still your father."

Harry shook his head. "This thing isn't my dad. Not anymore."


	11. Answers

**Chapter 11: Answers**

Harry was reading on the balcony outside the den when Bernard announced Miss Gwen Stacy. She was wearing a bright yellow sundress and a matching polka-dot headband. Harry smiled. He loved that color. It reminded him of sunshine.

She plunked a small carton and two spoons down on the end table next to him. "Go on, open it."

He knew what it would be, but he opened it anyway. It was ice cream, blue as the summer sky. "You got it already, huh?"

"The unicorn was really something, but the leprechaun tried to look up my skirt."

Harry dipped a spoon into the carton. "Mmm…you know…I think it really _does_ taste blue."

"It tastes just like I remember it. Did I ever tell you why I love it so much?"

"Because it's delicious?" Harry guessed, helping himself to more.

Gwen smiled a little. "The summer I was twelve, my mom and dad and I took a family vacation to Wisconsin Dells. We went to the water parks, took the boat tours, tried all the tourist stuff–fried cheese curds, local beer, and ice cream. Every meal, ice cream. Everywhere we went, there was this blue stuff. I think one of us had Blue Moon every time."

She ate a spoonful. "I didn't know it at the time, but my mom had already been diagnosed…she died the next year, in the spring. We never went on another vacation, and I never saw this ice cream again, until now. It's been almost ten years, and the taste of it still takes me right back." She leaned over and kissed him softly. "Thank you."

"I'm glad do to it. Making you happy makes me happy."

"That's why I love you." She flashed that smile again–it should come with a warning. "So why did you ask me here?"

Harry handed her the book he'd been reading, a spot marked. "My father's journals. Pretty boring. Lots of science." He sighed. "_Lots_ of science. But check out this entry."

"Your father hired Felicia Hardy's father to steal an invention from one of OsCorp's employees? This Sam Ely?"

Harry nodded grimly. "That's not all. According to Ely's employee record, he was fired because of a scheduling snafu. Nothing too weird. But then I found this…." he passed Gwen a newspaper article, freshly printed from microfilm. According to the article, Sam Ely shot himself shortly after being fired, leaving behind a young daughter named Marnie.

Gwen murmured, "'Prepare a place to slaughter his sons for the sins of their fathers.' She–Marnie, I guess–said that to us when we were in that apartment."

"What does it mean?"

"It means you found the motive."

* * *

Not-Felicia–Marnie Ely–directed a thousand-yard stare at the wall. Harry sat down in front of her. 

"When I get out," she said, "I'm going to kill you."

"Why?"

She was silent.

"What if I told you this is a private chat, because I had the cops turn off their hearing aids?"

"I'd say you're a liar just like your father."

"You know, I used to think 'just like your father' was the best compliment I could get." He pulled the journal and newspaper article from his pocket, slid them across the table to Marnie.

She read them and paled. When she spoke, there was a tremor in her voice. "Then you understand why I had to do it."

"I do. I've been where you are. Then I realized murder wouldn't honor his memory. We aren't our worst actions."

Marnie laughed bitterly. "I am. Just look at me. This isn't even my face."

"My biggest mistake was thinking my dad was completely innocent. Truth is, Spider-Man might have helped him, but he killed himself. When I realized that, I realized I didn't have to do the same thing. I had a choice."

"Maybe I'm a better daughter than you are a son," she said.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe your dad would have wanted you to live your own life, not someone else's."

Leaving the holding room, Harry met up with Captain George Stacy.

"What's going to happen to her?" Harry asked.

"Her lawyer is pleading insanity. With no motive, it's hard to dispute that she's crazy. She'll go to a psychiatric hospital."

"And if there is a motive?"

"Attempted murder, kidnapping, possession of a controlled substance…she'll probably get a lifetime in prison with no hope of parole."

Harry patted the journal in his pocket, thanked the captain, and left.

When Harry got home, he went to the den, where he had started listing the goals he had for OsCorp. He lingered at the corner of the desk, watching the little orange goldfish Gwen had given him.

All he'd ever wanted was to live up to his family name. Osborns were brilliant at science and business. Osborns were strong and unsentimental. Osborns needed nobody.

But if a fish could be Fluffy, an Osborn could be terrible at math, have a cop's daughter for a girlfriend and spend a ridiculous amount of money shipping her ice cream. He could decide that what OsCorp made was more important than how much OsCorp made. He could choose to make ploughshares, not swords.

Harry stepped onto the balcony, out of the shadow of the house. It was warm outside.


End file.
